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^7 75 




An Illustrated Monthly 


Vol. LI 

Xcmdon : 







Illustrations by Cy»*r¥ Oinco. 

ALMS AND THE MAtf : \\/ .. 

Illustrations by F. Cilliti, R.I. 



Illustrations from Photograph* by the Author. 



Illustrations from Drawings. 


Illustrations by W. Heath Robinson. 

3* 6 » 447* 5i 

Claude Grahame-While and Harry Harper 

Perceval Gibbon 

" By Our Readers. 9 

. . Frances Pitt, 

K. A. Morphy. 


Illustrations from Drawings. 

BARRIE STORIES By Sent* of Those Who Kn w Hint. 

Illustrations from Photographs. 


Illustrations from Drawings. 


Illustrations by Thomas Henry 


Illustrations from Photographs. 

44 BITER" 

Illustrations by Warwick Reynolds. 
BOGEY-MAN, THE. A Christmas Story .. 

Illustrations by Warwick Reynolds. 

BOXER, THE BRAIN OF THE. The Psychology of the Ring told specially for The Strand Magazine 

by the World's leading Boxing Champions .' Fred Welsh, James J. CORBETT, WlLLIE Ritchie, 

. Sergeant Wells, and Jimmy Britt 



Illustrations from Photographs, Drawings, and Diagrams 

. . Barry Pain. 

. . From the Russian of Leonidas Andreev. 
. .From the Russian of V. Nemirovich-Danchenko. 

A . Conan Doyle. 339, 45 T • 


Illustrations hy Will Owen. 


Illustrations from Diagrams. 


Illustrations from Drawings. 

CODE No. 2 . . ... • • 

Illustrations by A. Gilbert. 


Illustrations from Photographs. 


Illustrations from Photographs. 



Illustration* by James Montgomery Flagg. 


4 Illustrations from Photographs and Drawings. 


Illustrations by Graham Simmons. 


Illustrations by Alfred Leete. 


Illustrations by G. Henry Evison. 

W. W. Jacobs. 170, 248, 404, 520, 

Edgar Wallace. 
112, 224,335,44^55- < 

. . George D. Abraham. 
Portrayed by J. A. Shepherd. ( 

Elizabeth Jordan. 

Mrs. Asquilh. 

G. H. Powell. 
P. G. Wodehouse. 

Jessie Trimble. 

by LiOOglC 

Original from 

INDEX. »i- 


HALF A TON OF DYNAMITE Martin Swayne. 18 

Illustrations by Arthur Garratt. 

HAT FULL OF SOLDIERS, THE. A Story for Children from the Bohemian 103 

Illustrations by W. Heath Robinson. 

IN THE SERVICE W. Pett Ridge. 621 

Illustrations by Alfred Leete, 


By Allred l>eete. , 

ADVENTURE Austin Philips. 262 

Illustration* by F. Gillett, R.I. ....««„. 


Illustrations l^y Treycr Evans. 

JANE *> Mary Roberts Rinehart. 489 

Illustrations by Gladys Peto. 
JUDGE, THE . . .... . . " From the French of Charles Montcouronne. 207 

Illustrations by G. Dutriac. 

KAISER MAD? IS THE. With the Opinions of Eminent Brain Experts .. Dr. C. W . Saleeby. 418 

Illustrations from Cartoons. ^ 

KAISER PREACH IN JERUSALEM, HEARING THE. Spencer Leigh Hughes, M. P. {" Sub Rosa"). 588 

Illustrations from Drawings. 


Illustrations from Photographs and Document'*. 

KING'S ENEMIES, THE Raymund Allen. 412 

Illustrations by Dndliy Tennant. 

KNIGHT OF THE SCISSORS AND THIMBLE, THE. A Story for Children .. .. .. .-434 

Illustrations by W. Heath Robinson. 


Illustration from a Photogr.-' •> 


Illustrations from Photographs. 

LEAVE IT TO JEEVES P-G. Wodehouse. 568 

II lustra t tons by Alfred Lecte. 

LEETE, MR. ALFRED The Artist with the Funny Ideas . . .*• . . 9^ 

Illustration*; from Drawings. 
LITTLE CANDLES .. .. Richard Bird. 384 

Illustrations by E. H. Shepard. 
LONELY SAILOR, THE " BartimeusV 277 

Illustrations by E. S. Hodgson. 


Illustrations by Emile Verpilleux.. 

MAN WITH TWO LEFT FEET, THE P. G. Wodehouse. 506 

Illustrations by Lewis Baumer. 


Illustrations from Photographs and a Drawing. 

MOTOR-GUN, THE " Sapper." 608 

Illustrations by Cyrus Cun**o* 


A Model Gun That Fires .... .. S.Leonard Bastin. 617 

The Most Valuable Hen in the World James Anderson. 618 

Telling the Ace of an Egg 619 

A Curious Manner of Showing Anyone's Age and D ats of Birth. Professor Milo Deyo. 620 

An Insect " Gasser " 620 

Illustrations from Photographs. 

MUSIC AT THE FRONT, A YEAR'S Lena Ashwell. 257 

MUSIC OF THE MOMENT, THE. How Leading Revue Composers Write Their Melodies .. .. 54 

Illustrations from Photographs and Facsimiles. 


Illustrations from Old Prints. 

OX THE FILM .. .. Richard Marsh. 28g 

Illustrations by Charles Pears. 


Illustrations by Thomas Henry. 
PERPLEXITIES. A Page* of Puzzles Henry E. Dudeney. 108, 168, 30T, 440, 53^'Mi 

Illustrations from Diagrams. 
PETER GREYBEARD. A Norwegian Story for Children . . Retold in English by E. Dyke. 652 

Illustrations by H. R. Millar. 


Illustrations from Photographs. 

" PIED PIPER, THE " . . Violet M. Methlcy. 517 

Illustrations by I„ HocknelL Original f TO IT1 


by Oc 

PRINCE ROSH UN. A Story for Children /fcraxl 

Illustrations by W. Heath Robinson. 


Illustrations by Graham Simmons. 


RATIONS. The Food of Soldiers of All Times and Nations Eustace Miles, j 

Illustrations from Drawings. 


Genee, Adeline 

Grossmith, George 

Lester, Alfred 

Illustrations from Photographs. 


Illustrations from Drawings. 

ROBINSON, W. HEATH. The Inventor as Sportsman : Some Novel (and Unpatented) Ideas 


Illustrations by Dudley TeunanL 

SHRAPNEL ' "Sap/>c\ 

Illustrations by G. Henry Evison. 
"SOUL OF FRANCE WAS IN HER, THE" .. From the Freich o\ Marcelle Tina \ 

Illustrations from Photographs. 

THRILLING EXIT, A ... Fred M. Whit 

Illustrations by Thomas Somerfield. 


Illustrations from Drawings. 

TRAVELLER IN HATS, A .. E. M. Jamesoi\ 

Illustrations by J. E. Sutcliffe. 

TRENCHES, A GREAT HUMORIST OF THE. The War Drawings of Captain Bruce Bairnsfathe^ 

Illustrations from Drawings. 



Illustrations by H. R. Millar. 


Illustrations by Cyrus Cuneo and Irma Deremeaux. 

WHAT FELL ON HER HAT .. .. Richard Marsh. 

Illustrations by Nora Schlegel. 

WHAT THE SNAKE DID FOR JACOLINO. A Story for Children E. Dyke. 

Illustrations by W. Heath Robinson. 


Pierre Claude Chevallier H.B.Irving. 

Sigismondo of the Malatbsta and Vlad IV Morlty Roberts. 

Thomas Griffiths Wainewright George R* Sims. 

Ferdinando Alvarez de Toledo — Duke of Alva . . Max Pemberton \ 

Maximilien Robespierre Tithe Hopkins. 

Judge Jeffreys Spencer Leigh Hughes, M. P. 

Joseph Le Bon * . . Charles Wkibley. 

Illustrations from Old Prints. 


Illustrations from Photographs. 





Sleet and snow 
May be about ; 
Fry's Cocoa 

Will keep them 




CENSOR (opening letter) : What's the meaning of this ? I have seen it 
a great many letters :— * DON'T FORGET THE P. 

CENSOR'S ASSISTANT : Oh, don t you know what that means ?— 


CENSOR : Ah, yes, of course. 1 must make a note of that for mysel 

Pears 1 Soap 

is a great favourite at the Front and very helpful to the boys, enablin 
them to get a thorough washing at a moments notice. Pears' is mos 
Refreshing and Exhilarating to the Skin* 

A beautiful col -m rod reproduction of M BUBBLES," a facsimile of the worlil -fai nous picture by Si j 
John E. MilUis, I'.K.A,, size zSins. by 191ns., free from any advertising, will he sent post free or 
receipt of t id* in slamps or postal order* 

A. & F. PEARS, LtdL t 71-75. New Oxfor^SSiB^'LeW&ON, W.C 



wilt appear 


a thrilling spy story, with 
its scene laid in England. 



being the first short story 
of his to be published 
since the outbreak of war. 

by Google 

Original from 



by Google 

tSM/fltpn.) Original from 



JANUARY, 1916. 
Vol. li. No. 301. 



Illustrated by Entile Verpilleux. 

rose from the long table 
where the whole of the day- 
he had been slaving over his 
clay models, and stretched 
himself wearily. He splashed 
- c hot and cold water into the 

marble basin in the corner of the studio and 
washed those long, slim hands of his that 
seemed to drip red blood. They were 
beautiful hands, nervous and slender, with 
flexible wrists elastic as those of Paganini, 
as indeed they should be, for they belonged 
to the greatest sculptor of his time. And, 
indeed, Gavanni was something more than 
that-^-he was a poet ai^d a painter, the last' 
representative of an old- Italian family and 
.fh$ possessor of a great fpi^une to boot - 
: -3?or the most part he lived at that mediaeval 
palace of his at Hampstead> ^where he worked 
and dreamt and entertained the celebrities 
of Europe, from Royalty downwards. t • 

The house was crammed with art treasures 
gathered from all parts of the world. The 
great studio, probably the finest building of its 
iind in Europe, occupied the whole of the 
north front and had access to the gardens by 
ipiir bhg windows. Beyond the gardens again 
,wias a thick fringe of woods, arid/in the centre 
of these the laker— a. large sheet of water 
where, in the summer time, Gavanni spent a 
good deal of his spare hours drifting about 
.the lily-strewn waters in his Canadian canoe. 
When he was .at work, as he was now, on an 
important group in gold bronze, it was his 
mood . to shut himself of? from the rest of 
the world except for an occasional bosom 
friend, who knew him well and was in 
sympathy with his irregular habits. 

He passed into the dining-room now 
where Scott Ogilvie was awaiting him, the 
only guest in the house on that glorious 
summer night early in July. 
Vol. u.- 1. 

Ogilvie was home from India on furlough. 
He was high up in the Indian police ; a q\iite 
man with a logical mind and a clear, grey 
eye which was supposed to have seen further 
into the tortuous ramifications of the Indian 
mind than any other man who had ever been 
east of Suez. 

" Well, have you finished for to-night ? " 
Ogilvie asked. 

" I have been modelling since breakfast/' 
Gavanni declared. " But on the whole it 
has been a wasted day, for the rascally 
model I expected this morning did not turn 
up. I am sending him a postcard that ought 
to' bring him to his senses. A good model 
gets so dreadfully spoilt. You might drop 
this ; card Jn the pillar-box down the road 
when you go for your stroll presently. And 
now let's have some supper." 

Ogilvie slipped the card into his pocket 
and followed his host to the dining-room. 
And there, for an hour or more, they sat 
over their supper in the oak-panelled room 
filled with historic pictures. 

" Are you working to-morrow ? " Ogilvie 
asked, when at length the cigarettes and 
coffee were on the table. • 

" All this week, I hope," Gavanni said. 
"If you find it dull you can easily run up 
to town." . 

" Not I," Ogilvie smiled. " The peace 
and quiet of this old house suit my complaint 
exactly. I came home for a rest, and I am 
getting it. For five years I have been 
carrying on a long battle of wits with the 
Oriental mind, and I am tired out. By the 
way, what are you working on now ? Any- 
thing ambitious ?-" ■ 

."Well, yes," the sculptor said. "You 
know that line of Kipling's, ' East is East 
and West is West, and never the twain shall 
meet ' ? I'm weaving that into a kind of 

all l(iffife*i^ infinite troub,e 


I have found the model for the Pathan 
that I wanted. That's the man who ought 
to have been here to-day. As a matter of 
fact, I've had the thing in my mind ever 
since I stayed with you in Benares two years 
ago. There's something in the East that 
has always appealed to me, and Benares 
fairly set my imagination on fire." 

" You left it suddenly enough, anyhow," 
Ogilvie replied. " I never could quite under- 
stand why you turned your back on me 
there in so abrupt a fashion." 

" Ah, then you never guessed ? " Gavanni 

" Well, I had my suspicions, of course. I 
suppose that girl Serena Ran had some- 
thing to do with it ? " 

Gavanni exhaled a mouthful of cigarette 
smoke thoughtfully. 

" Well, yes," he said. " I had meant to 
tell you, but I never had the opportunity. 
Do you know, my dear chap, I came very 
near to making an everlasting fool of myself 
over that girl. For three days I was on the 
point of making her my wife. There was 
nothing wrong, you understand, merely 
certain love passages between us; but you 
are my oldest friend, and I will tell you the 
truth. I have only been really in love with 
one girl in my life, and she was Serena Ran. 
I loved her with a passion that you cold- 
blooded English know nothing of. She was 
the one woman only who could play upon 
my emotions like so many harpstrings. 
How beautiful she was you know. And we 
should have been happy enough up to a 
certain time, but East is East and West is 
West, and — I packed up my bag and came 
West instead. I tell you, Ogilvie, I ran 
away like a coward." 

" I suspected something of this," Ogilvie 
said. " But you could not have married 
her though her father was an Englishman. 
Probably the greatest blackguard that was 
ever in the Indian Civil Service. A fascina- 
ting man and fiendishly clever, but a wrong 
'un through and through. Anyway, he's 
dead now, and no doubt his sins lie lightly 
on his grave. And pretty little Serena is 
forgotten " 

" No, by Heaven, she isn't ! " Gavanni 
said, with a quiver in his voice. " She 
never will be forgotten, though what has 
become of her I haven't the remotest idea. 
Probably married to some fat Hindu who 
ill-treats her. But forgotten, no ! " 

" This is a strange way for a man to talk 
who is going to be" married in the autumn 
to Lady Ida Montcrieff. What would the 

duchess say if she could hear you ? And yet 
Lady Ida is rightly called the most beautiful 
girl in England." 

" She is superb," Gavanni said, with the 
exact criticism of the artist for the concrete 
beautiful. " She is a perfect perfume, she 
carries her own atmosphere with her. She 
is coldly beautiful, a statue that Praxiteles 
might have worshipped. She will make a 
perfect hojstess, the most beautiful piece of 
furniture in my house. And, in a way, I 
am fond of her. But " 

The speaker paused eloquently and helped 
himself to a fresh cigarette. It was getting 
dark by this time, and the dew was beginning 
to fall like pearly shadows over the gardens. 
Gavanni rose restlessly and walked towards 
the window. 

" I think I'll take a turn on the lake for 
an hour," he said. " You won't mind being 
left alone ? " 

Ogilvie raised no objection. He never 
interfered with these moods of his hosts. 
And he knew perfectly well that whenever 
Gavanni was busy on some important work 
he usually spent an hour or so most evenings 
drifting about the lake when the leather 
was favourable. No doubt the groat sculptor 
did most of his planning out on these 

"All right," Ogilvie said. "You won't 
be more than an hour or so, I suppose ? By 
the way, I never could quite understand 
why you erected that bronze statue of 
Hercules in the centre of your lake. A gem 
like that unearthed from Pompeii was 
worthy of a better fate. Why don't you 
use that statue as a model for the bronze 
you have in your mind now ? " 

" There are sculptors who might do so," 
Gavanni said, contemptuously. " But where 
would the touch of originality, which is the 
other word for genius, my friend, come in ? 
I had thought of it only to dismiss the idea 
at once. No, the Hercules is best where he 
is. A great work by a great unknown 
master, standing in splendid isolation in the 
centre of four hundred acres of water. What 
more fitting pedestal could you find ? But 
then, of course, you are not an artist." 

" No, I am not," Ogilvie said. "lama 
mathematician with a practical mind. But 
go on, don't mind me. Moon about on 
your lake, and when you have finished you 
will find me in the smoking-room. Now, 
off you go." 

Gavanni passed down the grass path and 
through the belt ,qf trees to the lake. 
The moon was rising behind the belt of 




trees and throwing silver pencils of light 
here and there along the face of the 
water. Between the bands of flame were 
broad strips of darkness, all the more intense 
by contrast with the lanes of light. Against 
the murky background the bronze Hercules 
loomed up, mystic and 'Symbolical, like a 
thing of life. Gavanni pushed off his canoe 
and drifted idly hither and thither on the 
face of the waters. He put the world 
entirely behind him now, he had one thought 
only, and that was for the work that filled 
him to the exclusion of everything else. 
Almost unconsciously he dipped his paddle 
in the liquid moonbeams, and almost as 
unconsciously pushed on to the centre of 
the lake. He was close to the statue now, 
a shadowy form that loomed above him, 
brown and hard and motionless. Just for a 
moment the sculptor allowed his eye to 
roam over those perfect outlines, the play 
of muscle and sinuousness of form that 
represented almost a lost art. For great in 
his line as Gavanni was, he was by no means 
blind to his limitations. Something like a 
sigh escaped him. 

" If I could only get the spirit of life like 
that/' he murmured. " There is the divine 
fire in every line and curve, the real afflatus." 

It was perhaps an hour or more later, 
nearly- midnight, that Ogilvie became con- 
scious of tlie flight Qf time, and woke to the 
knowledge that hje was still alone. It was 
not Gavanni' s way to stay on the lake so 
late ; usually he was back long before now. 
Not that Ogilvie was in the least anxious. 
He knew that a Canadian canoe was a frail 
craft and liable to trouble in the hands of a 
novice. But then Gavanni was no novice, 
and in no place was the lake more than five 
feet deep. At one time the bottom was 
thick with mud, but a year or two ago it 
had been cleaned out and the whole basin 
lined with concrete. So Ogilvie lighted 
another cigar, and waited calmly. 

Then the stillness of the night and the 
serene tranquillity of the smoking-room was 
broken by a sudden hoarse outcry and the 
noise of someone hammering on one of the 
French windows leading to the gardens. 
Ogilvie jumped to his feet and hastily threw 
back the long half of the sash. 

A man stood there, obviously a gardener 
in his Sunday clothes. Ogilvie could see 
that his hands and face were wet ; he had 
lost his hat, and his face was pale and agitated. 

" Thank goodness you have not gone to 
bed, sir," the man gasped. " I saw a light 

in the window, so I came this way. I am 
Rogers, the gardener. It is my duty to look 
after the orchid-houses the other side of the 
lake. I've got some young plants just 
coming into bloom, and I generally come 
along about this time to have a last look at 
them. About an hour ago I saw the master 
in his canoe, and when I came away just 
now the canoe was still in the same place. 
And when I looked at it again in the moon- 
light I saw that the boat was empty. At 
least, I thought so. It seemed strange to 
see it drifting about there, so I took a punt 
to fetch it back. And the canoe wasn't 

The man shuddered, and his lips quivered. 

" The master was lying inside on his face. 
At first I thought he was asleep. But when 
I got the canoe to the side and put my 
hand on his shoulder to wake him up I saw 
that he wasn't asleep, but that he was dead." 

" Good heavens ! " Ogilvie cried. " Arc 
you sure, man ? " 

" Aye, that I am, sir. I'm an old soldier, 
an' I've seen too many dead bodies not to 
know. The count's dead, and what's more, 
it looks as if he had met with foul play. I 
was too stunned to do anything for a minute 
or two ; but come along, sir, and see for 
yourself. It's as light as day outside." 

Ogilvie waited for nothing more. He 
raced across the gardens and dashed through 
the belt of trees until he came to the edge 
of the lake. There was the canoe anchored 
close to the grass path, and in it a dark, 
sinister object that looked ominously still 
and rigid in the light of the moon. Gavanni 
lay there flat upon his face — he had evidently 
fallen forward from his seat in the stern of 
the canoe, for he was stretched out on the 
cushions as if some blow had laid him out, 
and as if he had never moved afterwards. 
And there was no hope in Ogilvie's mind ; 
he had looked upon death too often in the 
dim East yonder not to know it when he saw 
it, even if the face of the spectre was turned 
away from him. He knew that Gavanni 
was dead. And a moment later he knew 
something else. 

" Your master has been murdered," he 
said, hoarsely. " See that mark at the bare 
of the skull' and that red band below his 
collar ? There has been foul play here 
beyond a doubt. But come, we are wasting 
time, and every moment is precious. As an 
old policeman myself, I know the value 
of time in cases like this. Now help me 
to carry the n^j<?ffef ftijgrfi ^ e house, and I 
will teV^^^^^ and inform 





original from 



the authorities what has happened. Wake 
up, man ; don't stand staring at me in that 
stupid fashion ! " 

It was nearly daylight before Ogilvie 
stumbled sleepily to bed. They had been 
pretty crowded hours, but so far the investi- 
gations at Scotland Yard had proved futile. 
It was quite clear that nobody in the house 
could throw any light upon the mystery. 
And for the moment, at any rate, Ogilvie 
could see no motive for the crime. That 
robbery formed no part of the motive 
an examination of Gavanni's effects clearly 
showed. Nothing was missing, for the 
watch and chain had been found on the body, 
and the count's cigarette-case was discovered 
in the canoe. 

Tired as he was, Ogilvie turned out his 
pockets and placed his dress clothes carefully 
away. On his dressing-table lay two or 
three letters and the postcard that Gavanni 
had entrusted to him. Apparently he had 
forgotten all about it ; he had dropped off 
to sleep in the billiard-room after dinner, 
having intended to go out later on. Not 
that it mattered very much now. It was a 
jpere trifle, but to a man of Ogilvie's training 
there were no such things as trifles. He 
read the address on the postcard, and just 
for a moment the tired look faded from his 
eyes. Then he put the whole thing out of 
his mind, and slept soundly far into the 
following morning. 

Naturally enough the tragic death of 
Gavanni caused a profound sensation in 
London. And as the days went on and 
no arrest was* made, public opinion grew 
impatient. But meanwhile one man, at 
any rate, had not been idle ; Ogilvie was 
leaving no stone unturned with a view to 
getting to the bottom of the mystery. By 
this time he had formed something like a 
theory. On his own responsibility, and 
without consulting the police, he decided to 
empty the lake — no difficult matter in view 
of the fact that it was fed by a small stream, 
and that the opening of the floodgate by 
the boat-house would drain away the water 
in the course of a few hours. Ogilvie stood 
there watching the slow process, his eyes 
turned upon the mystic figure in bronze in 
the centre of the basin. It was the figure of 
Hercules with his club, doubtless in the act 
of slaying the Hydra. And as Ogilvie 
turned his eyes intently on the object the 
plan took more definite shape in his mind. 

u I wonder," he murmured to himself ; 
" the odds are a hundred to one against it, 
but I wonder." 

itized by C^OOgle 

He came back towards the evening when 
the work was finished, and walked across 
the empty basin in the direction of the 

There was no mud here, nothing but a 
thin, green slime, little thicker than a coat 
of varnish, and every inch of this, within 
a few yards of the base of the statue, Ogilvie 
examined carefully. There was one thing 
to reward his search in the shape of a 
heavy knobbed club loaded with lead at 
one end. There were lines, too, irregular 
lines and scratches in the slime, that looked 
very much as if somebody had been tracing 
a rude pattern there with the point of a 
walking-stick, which, no doubt, had been 
done before the lake was empty, for there 
had been no chance of this since, for Ogilvie 
had taken good care of that. His had been 
the first footstep inside the empty basin. 

" We're getting warmer," he whispered. 
" There is something in my theory after all. 
At any rate, this discovery goes a long way 
to prove that my theory is right. And I am 
the one man m England who knows how to 
grapple with it." * 

Early next morning Ogilvie returned to 
town and made his way to his lodgings in 
Dover Street. A little time later he called 
at a house in Stamford Street, Waterloo 
Bridge Road, under a pretence of finding a 
bed and sitting-room for the next two ot 
three days. He gathered frotn the apart- 
ments-card over the fanKght that there would 
be no difficulty in this respect, and sd it 
proved. The landlady was quite willing to 
accommodate him — indeed eagerly so. 

" I shall be out most of the day," Ogilvie 
said. " I shall want no meals, not even 
breakfast. And I shall not need the rooms 
for more than a week, so I'll pay you in 
advance. Are there any other lodgers m 
the house ? " 

" Only one other party, sir," the landlady 
said. " A troop of performers who 'ave a 
month's engagement at the Pantheon Music- 
hall in Lambeth Road. They are natives 
of some kind, but they are very quiet, and 
they won't disturb you." 

By a singular coincidence the following 
night saw Ogilvie seated in the cheap stalls 
of the Pantheon Music-hall, watching the 
performance with the air of a man who is 
simply killing time. It was the usual dreary 
music-hall show, and not till nearly the end 
did Ogilvie display any sign of interest. 

But a clever performance of an Eastern 
group of artistes seemed to move him almost 
to enthusiasnji^gj|I|^|va3 quite an intelligent 


— A 



display in its way,- clean and refined, and, 
Ogilvie would have thought, far over the 
heads of the audience. Yet there was a 
section of people there who applauded the 
tableaux vigorously, but there was no man 
present who followed the doings of those 
bronzed Orientals with the vivid interest 
that Ogilvie was feeling in every nerve of 
his body. 

The next morning he was back at Ramp- 
stead again. The house, of course, was m 
the hands of the police, but he was known 
by name to the inspector in charge, and 
consequently he had no difficulty in going 
over Gavanni's papers* Late that evening 
— just after midnight , in fact — he made his 
way back to Stamford Street and lighted the 
gas in his sitting-room. 

" Have those other lodgers of yours come 
in yet ? " he asked the landladv. %l Oh* 
they have. Then would you go upstairs 
and ask the man who calls himself Ran Sen 
if he will come down here a moment, as I 
have a message for him from Ogilvie Sahib? 
Just tell him that, and ask liim to come this 

A minute or two later and a Eurasian, 
white-clad from his snowy turban to his 

flowing skirl s > came into the room and made 
a low obeisance, 

li Your Excellency sent for me/' he said- 
M The sahib desires to see me, But they 
did not tell me that it was Sahib Ogilvie 
himself, 3 ' 

Ogilvie shut the door discreetly and 
lighted a cigarette. Ran Seri stood there, 
erect and motionless, a magnificent specimen 
of humanity, tall and powerful and muscular. 
His manner was respectful enough, but 
obviously his nerves were at high tension, 
for he seemed to be watching some unseen 
danger that lurked in the background behind 
Ogilvie's head. 

Y T ou did not expect to see me ? " the 
latter asked. 

" It is a happiness beyond my hopes, 33 the 
man said, humbly enough, (t It must be 
three years now since the sahib deigried to 
extend his protection to the humblest of his 
slaves. But Ran Seri has not forgotten* 
And if there is anything I can do for the 
all-highest protector of the poor — — " 

" Only one thing/' Ogilvie said, calmly* 
" Tell me why you murdered Count Gavanni." 

The Eurasian quivered from head to foot 

** Himmimmtafeftr 1 struck him 



a mortal blow. But there was no sign of 
fight in his dark eyes, no suggestion of 
violence on his part. He took it with all 
the fatalism of his race. 

" The highest knows what he is speaking 
of ? " he asked. 

" The highest most certainly does/' Ogilvie 
said, grimly. *' You went over to Hampstead 
on Sunday night of last week and you killed 
the count when he was sitting in his canoe. 
I am not going to say that I saw you do it, 
but I am as sure of it as if I had been there 
and saw the blow struck. You may speak 
if you like, or you may reirain silent. But 
there is no hope for you, no chance of escape. 
In any case, you will be in the hands of the 
police, before morning. Now, then ! " 

Ran Seri made a step forward towards a 
chair, and hesitated. 

" Yes/' Ogilvie said. " You have my 
permission to sit down." 

The Eurasian dropped into the chair. He 
gave no sign ; if he was feeling deeply he 
did not betray his feeling by even so much 
as the quiver of an eyelid. 

" There is nothing hidden from the sahib," 
he said. " There is nothing he does not 
know. It was the same in Benares, where 
the evil-doer trembled before a glance of 
the sahib's eye. And if I had known that 
the highest was in England I would have 
come to him the next day and told him the 

" Then you are going to confess ? " Ogilvie 

" Who is the worm Ran Seri that he 
should set up the thing he calls his mind 
against the white gods who sit and whisper 
in the ear of the sahib ? The sahib knows 
everything. Therefore it is not for me to 

" Perhaps not," Ogilvie said. " But I 
like to know that I am right. Now let me 
see if I can tell you exactly what happened. 
You came to England with the intention of 
finding Count Gavanni and killing him." 

" Even so, sahib. That thing I did 
without malice in my mind, and because my 
gods so ordained it. I am but as a humble 
instrument in their hands." 

" No doubt. But at the same time you 
had no intention of risking your skin if you 
could help it. And it was in your favour 
that you and the count had never met. It 
was not for him to know ihat you are half- 
brother to the girl that the count made love 
to two years ago in Benares. He did not 
know that Serena Ran ever had a brother. 
It is only I who was aware of that because 

I was head of the police there, and it was 
with my connivance that you managed to 
escape from India. But I am merely wasting 
your time by telling you this. Let us get 
on. You came to England as the humble 
instrument of the gods, as you say. But, 
unfortunately, that kind of thing is not 
regarded with any marked favour in this 
country. Of course I can sympathize, to a 
certain extent, with your point of view, 
because I have spent twenty years in India. 
Anyway, you came to England, you found 
your man, and you laid your plans for his 
death. He wanted a model for some figures 
in bronze he was working on, and when you 
offered yourself he deemed himself fortunate, 
little dreaming who you really were. 

" Well, you went into his service, you had 
the run of the studio at Hampstead, and by 
degrees you learnt all you wanted to know. 
You learnt, for instance, that most fine 
nights the count was in the habit of paddling 
about on the lake in the moonlight or in 
the darkness, working out his designs. And, 
because you are an Oriental and have the 
subtle mind and imagination of your race, 
you began to see your way to one of those 
dark and mysterious crimes which are the 
delight of the Eastern criminal. Possiblv 
you might have killed the count in a common- 
place fashion, but he was a powerful man, 
too, and you might have been killed yourself 
instead. Night after , night you watched 
your opportunities almost under the shadow 
of that bronze figure in the centre of 
the lake, and then the inspiration came 
to you. 

" You saw that the count never passed a 
night on the water without spending a few 
moments in close contemplation of that 
work of art, and here was your opportunity- 
ready to your hand. It was no difficult 
matter for you to strip off your clothing and 
hide it in a wood, and then, protected by 
your dark skin, swim as far as the statue. 
And it was equally easy for a man of your 
physique to lift the hollow bronze Hercules 
from its pedestal and drop it into the water, 
whilst you assumed the place of the statue 
with a club in your hand ready to deal the 
count a mortal blow at the first opportunity. 
I have no doubt that you posed more than 
once, waiting for the change to come. Then 
it was no difficult matter to replace the 
statue on its base and assume your clothing, 
with nobody any the wiser. I am as much 
convinced that this happened on Sunday 
week as if I had been in the canoe with the 
count and had seen the crime happen." 




" His Excellency is high in favour with 
his own gods/' Ran Seri said. " The gods 
that never fail him. Doubtless they came 
to his mightiness in the darkness of the 
night and showed him all this in a vision." 
" Doubtless they did nothing of the sort," 
Ogilvie said. " I happen to know you of 
old, and I knew your sister, tool You were 
in America then. But the count was staying 
with me, and it was I who was mainly 
responsible for bringing him and your sister 
together. And there was no one who more 
bitterly regrets it than myself. I am sure 
there was nothing wrong, only the old story 
of a man amusing himself in his idle hours 
and leaving the trusting girl to suffer after- 
wards. And these stories are not confined 
to India, my friend. I suppose youf sister 
wrote to you and told you all about her 
coming happiness, and doubtless she told you, 
too, afterwards, that her dream was ended. 
Is she married yet ? " 
Ran Seri moved for the first time. 
" She is dead," he said. " And now you 
know. She died of what you call a broken 

" I am grieved to hear it," Ogilvie replied. 
" I might have guessed something of this. 
But for some hours after the count's death 
I suspected nothing but a vulgar crime. 
And then I found a postcard that the count 
had written to you telling you that if you 
did not put in an appearance on Monday he 
would have no further use for your services, 
and I began to see daylight. You would 
have been wiser to have changed your name. 
I knew then that you were an enemy in the 
house, and I knew that you had come all 
this way to avenge the slight on your sister. 
But even then I could not quite see how you 
had managed it until I tracked you here and 
found out what you were doing. I have 
seen your performance, I have seen those 
living bronzes at the Pantheon Music-hall, 
and I have seen the statue of Hercules in 
the middle of the lake at Hampstead. And 
when I had seen those two things everything 
became plain before me. But I have seen 
more than that; I have seen the scratches 
on the pedestal of the statue, and the marks 
made in the bottom of the lake where you 
placed the statue when you were posing on 
the pedestal in its place. I have even found 
the weapon with which the crime was com- 
mitted. And with that I have finished. If 

there is anything you would like to say " 

" A few words, sahib," the Eurasian said, 
calmly, as if he were repeating something he 
had learnt by heart. " It is all just as the 

sahib says. It is as if he had seen everything 
in a vision arranged before his eyes by the 
gods. When that little sister of mine, whom 
I loved to the tips of my finger-nails, wrote 
to me and told me all her troubles, the 
gods whispered in my ear that I must 
find the man and kill him. They whispered 
day and night until the voices nearly 
drove me mad. So I came back to 
Benares, and, behold ! the lovely child was 
dead — dead as if a hand had slain her. And 
the gods were at my ear the whole time. 
I had nothing to guide me but a photograph, 
but in the end that was enough. It took 
me a year to find the man, but I did find him 
— I even entered his service, and he none the 
wiser. In all my spare time I watched him : 
watched him in his garden and qn the lake 
till the plan came into my mind. I could 
do it better than most men, for is not my skin 
the same colour as the statue, and have I 
not for two years been posing before the 
public with my brothers until I could stand 
for hourS without the quiver of an eyelid ? 

" I knew that sooner or later my chance 
would come to me, and it came. Four 
Sundays did I wait — for Sunday is the only 
day I have free — and at last my chance 
came. He sat there within a yard of me 
speaking to the statue as if it had been alive* 
Then he wished me good night, and drifted 
away so near that I could have touched him 
with my hand. It was then that I reached 
forward and smote him with that heavy 
club on the back of the head, so that he fell 
on his face and never moved again. It is 
the decree of the gods that the sahib should 
be in England now and that his vast intelli- 
gence should see in a flash of an eye all that 
I would have hidden from the world. And 
if the sahib asks me if I am sorry or that I 
regret, then I say no. For, behold, I am an 
instrument, a sword in the hand of the 
avenging deities who have used my unworthy 
body so that justice might be done. And 
once there were white men who tried to 
convert me to your creed, and in a book 
they gave me I read that there should be an 
eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth. And 
therefore can the sahib bring himself to 
blame me because I have learnt the lesson 
written in the Talmud of his own forefathers ? 
Sahib, I have finished." 

The Eurasian bent his head upon his 
breast arid folded his hands before him. 
He sat there, the embodiment of Fate, the 
incarnation of a creed beyond the grip of 
Western imfig!Daticn<f rom 

^mrffifl\-*ff feriieiir* the ^ 







T is the most secret place in the British 
Empire/ 5 

The man who spoke these words 
employed them to describe Broad- 
moor _ England's great prison for insane 
criminals, which stands in Berkshire, nigh to 



New lights on the case 
— The doctor tells his 
own story — His land-' 
lord adds some in- 
teresting details — A 
fellow - inmate de- 
scribes the doctor s lire 
at Broadmoor, while 
another supplies us 
with a portrait or him. 

A the little town of Crow- 

K thorne T and has been made 

K famous In many a grisly tale 

L mk of wrongdoing that — rightly 

■t l| or wrongly — has ended with 

the incarceration of the cen- 
W$ tral figure within its walls, 
as well as by many a sen- 
sational work of imaginative 
fiction and many a grim melodrama, Broad- 
moor was the criminal lunatic asvlum in 
which Du Maurier's *' Peter Ibbetson " was 
supposed to have written his strange auto- 
biography, and finally to have died ; and 
the institution hr.s figured again and again in 




the writings of George R. Sims and other 
purveyors of romance* 

Recently, and perhaps for the first time, 
Broadmoor has become more than a name 
to readers in other lands owing to the 
publication of the strange and almost 
incredible tale of how an American Civil 
War surgeon, who went mad as a result of 
experiences in that conflict and who later 
came to England 
and stood his trial 
for murder here, 
spent nearly forty 
years in Broadmoor. 
And how, while 
there, he turned his 
cultured mind to 
literary research 
and was of inestim- 
able assistance to 
the late Sir James 
Murray, one of the 
greatest scholars of 
his time, in the 
Utters compilation 
o( the material for 
that mightiest of all 
lexicons, the " New 
English (or Oxford) 

Since my original 
article was written 
Dr. Minor has been 

interviewed, and has added several details 
to the story. 

Now in his eighty-third year, he is to- 
day an inmate of St. Elizabeth's Asylum, 
the Government Institution at Washington, 
1*.C, to which, as an ex-member of the 
United States Army, he was admitted when, 
■n April, 1910, at the instance of his relatives, 
he was finally released from Broadmoor by 
Mr. Winston Churchill, who was then Home 
Secretary, and taken back to his own 
■ untry after having spent thirty-eight 
yean, almost to a day, in confinement in 
this country. 

'Meanwhile his story has become world- 
famous. When first revealed in these 
columns, coming, as it did, so soon after the 
death of Sir James Murray, the greatest lexi- 
cographer of our time, the tale of how a 
madman furnished him, according to his ow* 
showing, with " between five thousand and 
v*M thousand " of the quotations which he 
a *fti in his great work was the sensation of 
the day in the Press of Great Britain, which, 
m retailing it, momentarily forgot the war. 
Learned editorial articles were based upon 

it + M No romance/' declared the Pall Mall 
Gazette, "is equal to this wonderful story 
of scholarship in a padded cell.'* And 
the Daily Telegraph, which, in its news 
columns, described the tale as " one of 
the strangest ever chronicled in print," 
commented upon it editorially to the extent 
of nearly a column and drew a contrast 
between the American doctor and the 


Photo, 6jf ¥. Frtih ^ €* 

notorious Wainwright, poisoner and art 
critic, who was the acquaintance pf Charles 
Lamb and De Quincey, and whose remark- 
able career suggested materials for a cha- 
racter both to Bulwer Lytton and to Charles 

Even wits have fount) inspiration in the 
story of Dr + Minor* An Australian humorist,- 
for example, remarked recently that " claims, 
iftat an insane physician helped Sir James 
Murray compile his dictionary of the 
English language lift a dark cloud of sus- 
picion from Henry James. 7 ' Across many 
seas the tale has travelled, and seldom in the 
future, apparently, will cases of erudition 
coupled with madness be instanced without 
reference being made to the " Lexicographer 
of Broadmoor, ,T as one British editorial 
writer termed Dr. Minor. 

There is no doubt that for years he must 
have been suffering more or less from the 
delusions of persecution— common in certain 
forms of insanity— which culminated in such 
a tragic way. 

Hv had taken lodgings in Lambeth. Cne 
night, near midnight, he Imd gone out for a 




stroll along the Embankment. He noticed 
a workman behind him, and he thought he 
was dogging his steps. The delusions from 
which he suffered instantly connected the 
figure of this man with his p3rsecutors. Dr. 
Minor drew his revolver and shot the man. 

Far from resenting the publication of his 
strange story, the doctor, when interviewed 
at St. Elizabeth's Asylum, in the American 
capital, gave a complete confirmation to our 
narrative and added several details in his 
own words. 

44 1 could have walked to the river and 
thrown the revolver in, and no one would 
ever have known," he said ; " the street was 

How he came to be carrying a revolver he 
explained thus : His work often carried him 
into dangerous streets. At dinner one night 
an elderly officer asked him why he did not 
carry a revolver, adding, " When you need 
one, you always need it bad" 

The remark made an impression on him, 
and from that time on. he carried one. When 
examined by the police a bowie-knife was 
also found on his person. 

Dr. Minor, it is satisfactory to note, also 
confirms in all essential details the story 
of his connection with the " New English 
Dictionary*" as it was first related in these 

44 It was Dr. Murray's way," he said, " to 
send out leaflets stating that he sought such 
and such information, and inviting those 
who could supply it to do so. I happened to* 
see that he wanted certain information, and 
sent it. My first contributions .consisted of 
details as to English words , which, in the 
United States, have acquired a new signifi- 
cance/ as, for example, the word ' sick/ 
which, on this side of the Atlantic, of course, 
merely means to be ill in any way. Dr. 
Murray seemed pleased with what I con- 
tributed, and that is the way it all started. 
The work on the dictionary was for me a 
very pleasant and satisfactory way of passing 
the time. The work was no burden to me ; 
it was a pure pleasure." 

When it was suggested that he had received 
scant reward for his labours and stood little 
chance of getting " a square deal," he 
exclaimed : 4t I expect God will give me * a 
square deal.' I do not expect it from man." 

Dr. Minor states, too, that the published 
volumes of the dictionary were sent to him 
as they were issued, so that he has always 
seen the results of his scholarship. 

When the interviewer called on Dr. Minor, 
by the way, he found him reading u National 

Law and Science," by Emile Boutroux. He 
used to read, he said, many odd books — was 
what he called a 4< free lance " — did noi. 
attempt any particular line. 

44 But now," he said, " I have no books to 
speak of. I used to have a large library over 
there, and I bought many oufr-of-the-way 
books. Now it is all broken up." 

This was due to the belief of the English 
surgeons that he would not survive the voyage 
to America. As a matter of fact, it appears 
to have been, as he declares, " very beneficial 
to me." 

Letters from peers of the realm and famous 
scholars have reached me in connection 
with my article on 44 The Strange Case of 
Dr. Minor." Among them is an interesting 
account of the American ex-surgeon's early- 
days in London from Mr. John Fisher, the 
then proprietor of 41, Tenison Street, Lam- 
beth, where Dr. Minor lodged. 

44 It was a great relief to me," he says, " to 
hear that the doctor found some congenial 
and useful occupation during his incarceration, 
for apart from his attacks he was an accom- 
plished and thorough gentleman, and I am 
glad to know that he was ultimately allowei 
to return to America. 

44 By the light of after-events it was only 
by the closest shave .that I was not myself 
the victim instead" of poor Merritt. When 
the doctor came to ufc he said he was visiting 
England for pleasured he, did not care for 
hotel life, as he -wished te cpme and go ^s he 
liked. He should .b'd away sometimes for 
days at a time, but he wanted a light left 
every night, as he disliked entering a dark 
room. He had a dislike, almost amounting 
to fear, of anything Irish. He more than 
once asked to see me, but as I was then very 
busy it was some time before the opportunity 
occurred. ' He had been away some days, 
and on a Saturday evening I was home early 
and my. wife asked me to let down the 
Venetians and light the gas in his room. 
Being dusk I went into the room without 
noticing anything, and had got the blinds down 
and was just in- the act of lighting the gas, 
when he bounded off the bed, swift and light 
as a panther, and stood inches above me in a 
fury. Fortunately I managed to get a light, 
and I suppose my appearance reassured him 
when I told him who I was. I afterwards 
knew that he always carried a loaded revolver 
and a formidable clasp knife. Had he used 
either the one or the other in his alarm it 
would not have been poor Merritt who was 
the victim. Such was our almost tragic 




(£ He quickly calmed down, and asked me 
if I could spare time for a little chat after 
tea. I had a very pleasant talk with him 
for about two hours, and found him one of 
the best-informed men I have ever met. It 
was soon after the Franco-German War* 
The French had been defeated and M, Thiers 
was just taking office, and Dr + Minor was 
wondering what would come of it* He knew 
European politics as well as any one in ten 
average Englishmen, He said he had en- 
joyed the talk, and asked me to see him 
ajrain on the first opportunity. Alas ! the 
next time I saw him was at the police- station, 

u He had been away for a day or two and 
had come home about nine o'clock. He said 
he did not want anything, and was going to 
bed. About midnight 1 was startled by the 
door bell ringing violently 3 and found a 
police- sergeant at the door asking for Dr. 
Minor. I said he was in bed* ' Excuse me/ 
he said 3 ' a man who says he is Dr. Minor, 
and gives this address, is at Stones End 
police-station. He has shot a man, and you 
had better come and identify him/ Yes, it 
was the doctor, and he appeared rational 
enough then. He asked for a few things to 
be taken to him, which I did. The police came 
next morning and 
turned all his 
things on to the 
floor— two or three 
hundred pounds 1 
worth, I should 
think, including 
cash and circular 
notes, letters of 
introduction j etc. 
After the com- 
mittal these were 
all tumbled back 
into the trunks 
and taken away by 
the police. 

11 1 may add that 
we always knew 
where he had been 
during these 
absences, as he 
always brought his 
hotel bills back, 

communicated as a result of my article is 
that which was made, first by letter and later 
by word of mouth, by one who saw Dr. Minor 
almost daily during thirteen years of his 
incarceration in Broadmoor, Himself the 
possessor of more than ordinary scholarly 
attainments, united with a keen intelligence 
and an unusual faculty for keen observation, 
he was able to furnish details, not only regard- 
ing Dr. Minor's life within Broadmoor s walls, 
but as to his companions in misfortune there 
and regarding the fashion in which life is 
ordered in that dread institution. These 
details cannot fail, one thinks, to prove of 
more than common interest. 

For obvious reasons I am unable to disclose 
my informant's identity, but that he speaks 
with authority, and was not unworthy of 
the personal intimacy which Dr. Minor 
freely accorded him, will be evident from 
what follows. 

When I met this gentleman one of my first 
questions was as to the nature of the certain 
special privileges which he had declared were 
enjoyed by Dr* Minor at Broadmoor and 
accorded to no other inmate of the institution, 

41 As a * patient T possessed of means," he 
replied/* Dr. Minor was a resident of Block II,, 





Pkota, b$ F. Frilh <£ Co* 

and also by the beautiful sketches he had 
made. Sometimes it would be Windsor, some- 
times Hampton Court } and he was very fond 
of Richmond, He liked to put the finishing 
touch to them in the evenings while the scenery 
*as fresh in his mind/' 

By far the most inte resting, however, of 
the voluntary statements that have been 

which is reserved for the better class 
of inmates, and is known colloquially 
throughout the institution as the * swell 
block. 1 

" Block IL, among other things, is the 
Only section of Broadmoor in which * patients J 
are allowed to have private rooms, and Dr, 
Minor is the only one iliat I have ever 




known who was allowed two of these. They 
were on the top, or dormitory, floor of the 
block, and consisted of a living-room (over- 
looking the tennis-court), where he slept, 
and a day-room, where he worked and had 
his meals. The second of these rooms, where 
he carried on his now-famous work for Sir 
James Murray (and also dabbled in his 
favourite pastime of water-colour painting), 
was on the other side of the building, only a 
few steps along the corridor from the doctor s 
sleeping-room, and overlooked the cricket- 
ground and as charming a landscape as one 
could wish to see. 

" Dr. Minor's work-room was, as one 
would have expected, lined on every side 
with books, the choicest of which were con- 
tained in a large glass bookcase (the only 
space in the wall not occupied by them was 
that reserved for the fireplace), and his 
painting implements, together with finished 
and unfinished canvases, were also in evidence. 
While on this subject I may mention that he 
had a predilection for depicting, not the 
surrounding scenery, but scenes which had 
lingered in his memory, and it was another 
evidence of his invariable kindliness that he 
was always glad to assist the other less-gifted 
amateur artists who shared his captivity. 
I have still by me, in fact, a little landscape 
study made by one of them, in which Dr. 
Minor touched in the sky. 

u He was a connoisseur, amongst other 
things, of rare first editions, which he col- 
lected, and was in constant correspondence 
with dealers in such. Thus we come to 
another of his privileges, which lay in the 
fact that his correspondence was uncensored 
by the asylum authorities, an exemption 
which was, 1 believe, unique in his case. He 
kept well abreast of periodic literature, 
taking in, among other publications, both 
the Spectator and the American Outlook, 
which he devoured as soon as it arrived. I 
remember he was keenly interested in the life 
of the late Booker T. Washington which ran 
through its pages, particularly so, perhaps, 
as he had known, it seemed, at least one of 
the characters mentioned therein. 

" Block II.," went on the speaker, " is the 
only one of the buildings at Broadmoor 
which possesses a library of its own, and it 
is quite a fine one, the volumes of which it 
consists being selected and purchased by the 
chaplain of the prison. Needless to say, 
Dr. Minor was one of the most regular 
1 borrowers,' though it was much more his 
habit to ask to be allowed to consult a book, 
to ' burrow ' in it for a few minutes, and 

by LiOOgle 

then to return it and hurry back to his own 
room. He was extremely short-sighted, and 
always held a volume or other printed matter 
that he might be reading close to his nose, 
but I have never seen him use glasses. After 
the five years that have passed since I last 
saw him (in April, 1910), I find it difficult 
to remember what bgoks he had on his own 
shelves, but I remember noticing, among the 
novels, Hardy's * Jude the Obscure.' And 
this recalls a somewhat interesting little 

" One day, while sitting in the ' airing 
court' of Block II., where the patients who 
are not employed in the shops and on the 
estate take their exercise, I happened to be 
discussing with one of them — a man of wide 
reading and cultivated tastes — a recent 
essay by Professor Walter Raleigh, in which 
he placed in the same class of fiction Dickens's 
1 Pickwick Papers ' and ' David Harum.' 
Of the latter work, as it happened, neither 
of us had ever heard. Dr. Minor, who 
happened to be passing, stopped short on 
overhearing my confession of ignorance. 

" ' Why, " David Harum " is an American 
novel,' he said, ' which has made an extra- 
ordinary success in the United States, and is 
only less well known here. I have it in my 
room, and will lend it to you with pleasure.' 
Accordingly he did so, and when, several 
years later, he was abdut to leave Broadmoor, 
he remarked to me, ' You will be glad to 
hear that I'm leaving " David Harum *' 
behind me for others to enjoy.' " 

" What form did Dr. Minor's delusions take 
while he was in Broadmoor ? " 

" Very, extraordinary ones. He still be- 
lieved himself subject to persecution both by 
the Evil One and the Irish, but in spite of the 
latter fact, curiously enough, he never showed 
any antipathy to any of the Irishmen who 
were among the other six hundred and fifty- 
odd patients. The story went that, at his 
own expense, he had a layer of zinc placed 
under the flooring of his living-room, to pre- 
vent the evil spirits from coming up from 
below and making away with him, and he 
always kept a bowl of water in whichever of 
his two rooms he might be, on the theory 
that evil spirits will not cross water. It was 
not, you will remember, until Tam o' Shanter 
got across the river, that he succeeded in 
shaking off his maligu pursuers ! 

" But it was at night that Dr. Minor's 
strangest fancies took hold of him. Bed- 
time at Broadmoor comes at seven-thirty, 
and at a few minutes to eight the Principal 
makes a round of the building to see to it that 




every patient is safely between the sheets. 
Dr. Minor used to declare with the utmost 
conviction that, shortly after the Principal 
had made his round, several attendants (at 
the instigation of the authorities) would 
invade his room and force him to quit it, 
and that he then would be dragged across 
the intervening country, through hedges 
and across ditches, and forced to visit certain 
dens of infamy where he was obliged to com- 
mit the wildest excesses before he was eventu- 
ally brought back again. To show you, 
moreover, how his delusions kept him up to 
date, as it were, I may add that, as soon as 
the aeroplane was perfected and came into 
common use, the doctor declared that his 
nightly assailants, abandoning their former 
methods, would force him to enter an aero- 
plane *nd thereupon carried him off to Con- 
stantinople and to other parts of the East, 
where he was obliged to visit harems and to 
indulge in all sorts of orgies, the * remem- 
brance ' of which next day horrified him 
beyond measure. 

' • In his sleeping-room, I may recall, there 
was a clock which one day had stopped for 
no apparent reason. Between the glass and 
the face, ever afterwards, as long as I knew 
him, Dr. Minor kept a card on which he had 
printed in large letters, * This stopped clock 
is witness of the perfidy of those in charge of 
this institution/ No doubt what had happened 
was that the works of the clock had been 
removed by order of the Principal for reasons 
that one may guess, but the whole thing 
illustrates the strange workings of the 
American's mind. I recall, too, his quaint 

commentary on an ' argument ' which he 
told me he had been having with the medical 
superintendent, Dr. Brayn. 

" i Do you know the fable of the " Lion 
and the Fox " ? ' he asked. ' The lion 
announced one day that every creature 
would be safe at his court except horned 
animals. Shortly afterwards the fox was 
seen slinking away. One of the other animals 
asked him why he was fleeing, as the lion 
had promised to harm none but beasts with 
horns. " But look at my forehead/' said the 
fox, " and you will see that I have a bony 
lump there." " But that isn't a horn," cried 
the other animal. " No," said the fox, 
" but if the lion says it's a horn, then it is 
one, and it's no good my arguing." That's 
exactly the situation,' declared Dr. Minor, 
1 between the medical superintendent and 

u In personal appearance Dr. Minor was 
tall, being little short of six feet in height, 
painfully thin, and would not have turned 
the scale at nine stone. He was quite bald, 
with a finely-shaped head, broad forehead, 
keen and intelligent blue or blue-grey eyes, 
hollow cheeks, a thin, silky moustache, and 
thin, pointed, wavy beard ; in fact, he 
much resembled the accepted appearance 
of Father Time, or one of the old 

But perhaps a better idea of his appear- 
ance may be obtained from a sketch which 
was made by another ex-patient of Broad- 
moor. It is from this work that the moot 
interesting portrait which appears on the 
first page of this article has been derived. 

In next month's number will appear the opening chapters of a 




"The Castaways," 

in which the inimitable author of " Salthaven " and "At Sunwich 
Port" will be found at his best. 

yoL 1L-2. 


— — 



Illustrated by Arthur Gar rati. 

N a pleasant summer's evening 
Mr. and Mrs. Levison were 
seated in a corner of their 
immense drawing-room, listen- 
ing to the strains of a cabinet 
gramophone. For the first 
time for some weeks the 
Levisons found ihey had an evening to them- 
selves, and they determined to spend it in 
a simple and homely manner. Mrs. Levison 
rested in a negligent attitude on a couch, 
while her husband, clad in a purple, quilted 
smoking-jacket, with a large cigar in his 
mouth, reclined in an arm-chair, smoothing 
his sleek, black hair with one hand and 
beating time to the music with the other. 
His feet rested upon the back of another 

Mr. Levison was one of those simple and 
unassuming men who, from the moment they 
begin to think, concentrate all their faculties 
on the acquisition of money. His success had 
been slow, but steady, and each passing year 
saw him rising higher on the steep way that, 
in his opinion, was the only way of life. But 
although he was successful, L'r. Levison 
remained a simple and unassuming man, 
timid in manner to those whom he fancied 
were his betters, and easy and natural to his 

" My dear," he remarked to his wife, 
removing his cigar from his lips, " it is very 
nice to have a quiet evening together/' 

" It is, my love," replied his wife, with a 
contented sigh. 

The gramophone music ceased, and a 
gorgeous footman, who had been standing in 
the distance, advanced and stopped the 

" Edward," said Mrs. Levison, " go up- 
stairs to the nurseries and get the report of 
the night nurse." 

" Yes, madam.'' 

The footman withdrew, and Mr. Levison 

by K: 



loosened the buttons of his white evening 
waistcoat ; the Levisons were in the habit of 
dining late and their chef had excelled himself 
that evening. 

Mr. Levison blew a cloud of fragrant blue 
smoke towards the carved ceiling, and his 
eyes began to wander round the room. He 
was justly proud of the apartment. It was 
one of the largest drawing-rooms in London, 
and it was hung with a vast number of 
valuable pictures. In an alcove, softly 
illuminated by concealed lights, stood the 
Levison collection of china, sparkling with a 
thousand radiant hues. Charming examples 
of sculpture stood about, supported on marble 
columns. The furniture was not crowded, 
but each article was exquisite, for Mr. 
Levison was sufficiently a connoisseur to 
know when a thing was genuine, and what 
its price should be. Although the Levisons 
had only taken the mansion a year ago, it 
was already stored with treasures of art, 
from attic to cellar. 

The footman entered the room from a 
distant door and crossed the wide floor with 
noiseless tread. 

" Master David is asleep, Master Samuel is 
asleep, and Miss Miriam is asleep," he 

Mrs. Levison nodded contentedly. 

" Thank you, Edward ; you can go," said 
Mrs. Levison, waving her hand ; " we do not 
wish to be distuibed now." 

" Very good, madam." 

The footman cast a glance round the 
room, to see that everything was in order, 
and then departed. Mrs. Levison settled 
herself more comfortably, and prepared to 
go to sleep. Her husband readjusted his 
feet at a still higher angle at the back of the 
chair, and gave himself up to those deep and 
calm trains of thought whose outcome showed 
themselves as shattering cataclysms in the 
w>rld of finance. The long, gold-coloured 
-Orie^mal from 



curtains before the open windows stirred 
softly in the evening breeze. The murmur 
of London penetrated musically into the 
room. A quaint clock on a writing-table 
near by ticked a gentle and soothing rhythm, 
and soon Mrs. Levison's breathing told that 
she was in the world of dreams. 

A quarter to ten chimed softly from the 
clock on the writing-table, followed at 
intervals by chimes that came from all parts 
of the great apartment. Mr. Levison stirred 
himself and once more began to let his eyes 
wander round the room of which he was so 
justly proud. He noted his Velazquez and 
his Tintoret ; he dwelt lovingly on His little 
cabinet of Empire miniatures ; he doted on 
the marble Pandora, and had turned his head 
a little to enjoy the Vandyke, when he 
noticed a man seated on a couch half-way 
down the room. 

Mr. Levison started slightly. 

The stranger was in evening dress, and 
even from that distance he looked a distin- 
guished figure. He was caressing a long 
black moustache, and looking with interest 
at the wonderful collection of china opposite 
him. Mr. • Levison removed his feet from 
the back of the chair, and sat up. He felt a 
little agitated. Was. it possible that he had 
been asleep and that the visitor had been 
announced unheard by him ? In questions 
of social duties, Mr. Levison was always a 
little agitated. The sight of the distinguished 
stranger, sitting alone and unheeded, 
made him feel as if he were guilty of a 

He hastily buttoned up his waistcoat and 
adjusted his evening tie. Then, with a 
surreptitious movement, he roused Mrs. 
Levison. When she realized what her hus- 
band was trying to convey to her by violent 
gestures, she scrambled into a sitting position 
and smoothed down the folds of her elaborate 
yellow satin tea-gown that she had put on 
for comfort. 

" Who can he be ? " she whispered, in 
some excitement. 

" I do not know, my dear," replied Mr. 
Levison, nervously. " He must have been 
announced when we were asleep. His face 
is vaguely familiar." 

l< So many people come to our dinners 
whose names we scarcely know," said his 
wife, plaintively. " But go and speak to 
him, Joseph. Be very polite, and pretend 
you know him. It is always rude to ask a 
person's name." 

Mr. Levison braced himself up and began 
his journey down the brilliantly-lighted 

room. The stranger, on his approach, rose 
and bowed in a foreign manner. 

" Good evening," said Mr. Levison, rubbing 
his hands, and bowing also. 

" Good evening. I trust I do not disturb 
you," replied the stranger. 

"It is so kind of you tQ come," said Mr. 
Levison, nervously. He continued to rub 
his hands. 

The stranger, who was very tall, gazed 
down at him with a pair of dark, inscrutable 
eyes. He smiled slightly. 

" I walked in," he said. " The door was 
open. Your butler is conversing with a 
young lady at the corner. The footmen in the 
hall are fast asleep. So I walked upstairs." 

" Tut, tut ! " exclaimed Mr. Levison ; " I 
am so sorry no one announced you ! " 

" Not at all. You see, I know the house 
very well." 

" Of course ! " exclaimed Mr. Levison. 
He was greatly embarrassed. Who could 
he be ? He ought to know his name. He 
made a movement towards his wife, and the 
stranger accompanied him. 

" Ah — you know Mrs. Levison, of course," 
murmured Mr. Levison, waving his plump 
little hands vaguely. The stranger bowed 
again, very deeply. 

" How d'ye do ? " said Mrs. Levison, in 
her best manner, and then silence fell on all 
three. Only the stranger seemed at ease. 

" I was just telling your husband that I 
know this house very well," he remarked, at 

" Oh, yes," exclaimed Mrs. Levison, rapidly. 
" Of course. I know you have been often 
here ; such a pleasure ; please sit down, 
won't you ? " 

The stranger bowed, but remained standing. 

" My name is Kromeski," he announced, 

" Oh, I know — yes, yes, of course ! 
Prince Kromeski," murmured the unhappy 
Mrs. Levison, who was greatly agitated, and 
quite at her wits* end. 

" Your Highness " — began Mr. Levison, 
spreading out his hands. 

" No ; not Prince Kromeski. Simply 
Kromeski. J 

He bowed again. He was obviously 
foreign. The Lfcvisons bowed too. Who 
on earth could he be ? His manner was 
magnificent, although cold and distant. 
His lean, muscular frame was set off to 
perfect advantage by his evening clotlies. 
His composure was almost startling. Mrs. 
Levison was too upset to notice that he was 
waiting for her to iit down. 




" Will you take a little refreshment ? M 
inquired Mr I.evison, at length, in despair, 
M Something, perhaps, to drink ? " 

i You are most kind and thoughtful," said 
the stranger. Was it possible that there was 
a sinister j^leam in his eyes? Mr, Lcvinon, 
at any rate, did not observe it. 

li Some i hampa^ne ? ir lie asked, timidly. 

"Thank you. A little really <jood cham- 
pagne, well iced, would be very refreshing/ 7 

was the singular reply. Mr. Lcvison at once 

hastened to the bell, 

'* We keep some excellent brands/' he 
exclaimed, obsequiously. The footman 
entered. Nt Bring up a Imttle of champagne 
from bin number eighty-eight, and let it be 
iced. JSe quick ! " he commanded. 

The footman vanished. 

" The weather is a little hot/ ? he continued, 
rubbing his hands. * h One needs refreshment/' 

Original from 



" Quite so," said the stranger. He looked 
round the room. *' You have some wonderful 
treasures here, The size of the apartment 
shows them oil to perfection/' 

4f Yes," said Mrs, Levison, who was getting 
tired of standing ; M it is a large room," 

** The largest in London," said the stranger. 
"It took some planning, I assure you, to 
build it. Such a vast span of ornamental 
ceiling, without central support, is difficult 
to construct. At first I thought 1 could not 
manage it." 

The Levisons stared at him in surprise, 

" You see/' said the stranger, with a smile, 
" I am the architect who designed this house." 

" Oh ! " exclaimed Mrs. Levison. They 
looked at each other in surprise. 

1 The architect ! " said her husband , with 
raised eyebrows. 

11 Just fancy ! " added Mrs. Levison 3 

** ftlTT l 


sitting down at once. " How extra* 
ordinary ! " 

" What is extraordinary ? " asked 

" Your being only the architect/' she 

said resuming her attitude of complacency 
on the couch, il I thought you were some- 
body quite different 1 " 

In the scheme of life which Mrs. Levison 
had adopted, all people who followed a 
definite profession were treated coolly, for 
they were the servants of gold. Her husband 
—a person of finer sensibilities — did not 
hold quite the same views. He motioned 
Kromeski to a seat. 

'* Dear, dear," he said ; in tones of relief, 
** I didn't know what to make of you. So 
you are the architect ? Well, you didn't 
make a bad job of this house." 

41 Not bad," said his wife, carelessly. 
11 We should have preferred to build our 
own house. But Joseph thought this would 

At this moment the butler, followed by 
three footmen, entered the room. They 
formed up at the door and advanced in a 
little procession. Cne footman carried a 
silver ice-pail , containing the bottle of 
champagne ; another, a tray on which was a 
glass ; the third bore a table. The butler 
superintended their manoeuvres. 

Kromeski watched them with a curious 

J That is very good champagne/' observed 
Mr. Levison, after the servants had left. 
M From bin eighty-eight," 

I Yes/' echoed his wife ; "you built good 
cellars here. We have over two thousand 
pounds' worth of wine stored in them." 

(t That is true/' said Mr. Levison, with a 
look of satisfaction. 

11 The attics, too, are full of valuables/' 
continued his wife, in a kind of chant ; 
41 they contain the contents of two valuable 
libraries which Joseph bought last month." 

b< They are worth twenty thousand pounds/' 
echoed Mr. Levison, rapidly ; " one-fifth the 
value of this room," 

II Yes," continued his wife, t£ Joseph 
values the contents of this room at one 
hundred thousand pounds. "' 

l * And that is apart from the china, which, 
bv itself, is worth ten thousand pounds, ut 

They paused, a little breathless, and looked 
at each other with an expression of mutual 

ts And the whole house ? " asked Kromeski. 
" What is that worth ? " 

11 Contents and all, about three hundred 
thousand pounds/ 3 said Mrs. Levison. 

' Rather more, my dear/' corrected her 
husband ; " about three hundred and fifty 




Kromeski poured himself out a glass of 
champagne and drank it slowly. He put 
the glass down again on the table. 

"lama Nihilist/' he remarked, reflectively. 

" A what ? " asked Mrs. Levison, with a 

" An Anarchist." 

*The Levisons both sat up and stared at 

" An Anarchist ? " 

" Yes." 

Mrs. Levison gazed at him reproachfully. 
" But you said you were an architect ! " 

" I am both/' replied Kromeski, with 
great calmness. 44 I create things ; but if 
they do not please me, I destroy them. I 
created this house, but it does not please me. 
So I am going to destroy it." 

Mr. Levison, who had been momentarily 
alarmed, was reassured by the stranger's 
calm manner. He laughed, and nudged his 

44 It is a little joke," he whispered. 

" Oh," she returned, <( a joke ! " She at 
once leaned back again on the couch. 

44 You forget, my friend, that I bought the 
house," said Mr. Levison, entering into the 
spirit of the jest. " You cannot destroy 

Kromeski did not answer. He rose and 
crossed the room to observe a picture more 
closely. Then he returned and poured out 
another glass of champagne. His manner 
was very composed. 

" That is a genuine Daubigny you have 
there," he observed, sitting down. 

" Yes," said Mr. Levison. " I paid over 
a thousand pounds for that." 

44 It is a pity that it will be destroyed." 

44 Ha ha ! That is very amusing," Mr. 
Levison exclaimed. " So you are still deter- 
mined to destroy the house ? " 

44 Of course," said the stranger. " That 
is why I came to see you to-night." 

44 Excellent," cried Mr. Levison. " And 
how are you going to destroy it ? " 

44 With' dynamite." 

44 Of course. With dynamite ! " echoed 
Mr. Levison, greatly entertained. 

44 It would require a lot of dynamite to 
destroy this house," said Mrs. Levison, 

44 About half a ton," said Kromeski, 
looking round the room. 

44 You would need a cart to bring it here ! " 
she added, smiling broadly. 

44 No," he answered. " It is here already." 

The look that accompanied the statement 
was so curious that Mr. Levison's gaiety left 

him, and a chill feeling crept into his heart. 
He was naturally a timid man, and any 
suspicion of physical danger upset him. 
44 Here ? " he exclaimed, in amazement. 

" Yes " 

Mr. Levison looked at his wife. She was 

sitting up, studying Kromeski's face. Her 

expression showed she was uneasy. 

u Where is the dynamite ? " she asked, at 

44 In the cellars." 

44 Impossible ! " she cried. " The cellars 
are always locked. The butler, James, has 
the keys. It can't be in the cellars ! " 

44 It is, however, in the cellars." 

44 But there is no room for half a ton of 
dynamite in the cellars ! " cried Mrs. Levison ; 
44 the wine-bins occupy all the space ! " 

44 The dynamite is under the wine-bins." 

Once more the Levisons exchanged glances. 
Mrs. Levison uttered an exclamation of 
impatience. 4< How can it be under the 
wine-bins ? " she said ; " the floors are of 
concrete. You are talking nonsense." 

44 The dynamite is under the concrete." 

There was a pause. Mr. Levison threw up 
his arms with a gesture of incredulity. " How 
is that possible ? Who put it there ? " 

44 I put it there when I laid the foundations 
of the house." 

This startling piece of information made 
Mr. Levison's heart contract. His wife 
turned pale. They sat gazing at the sinister 
visitor with terrified eyes. What was this 
extraordinary tale ? Mr. Levison, with an 
effort, pulled himself together and en- 
deavoured to assume a courageous manner. 

44 You are mad ! " he exclaimed. 44 How 
dare you come here with this fairy tale ! I 
will have you turned out of the house ! " 

44 It is ridiculous ! " said his wife. 44 And 
even if there is some dynamite under the 
concrete, it is safe enough there. It cannot 

44 On the contrary," said Kromeski, looking 
intently at her. l4 It can explode. On the 
top of the dynamite, there is a time-machine, 
connected with an electrical apparatus. I 
put it there myself, exactly a year ago. It 
has been ticking, unheard, all this year ; 
it is an ingenious time-machine. I made it 

Mr. Levison sprang to his feet. His wife 
stood up also. 

44 You mean it may go off at any moment ? " 

44 No. It will go off at a certain definite 
time, which I arranged when I set it." 

44 And when is that ? " 

14 To-nighl, elL ^alf-past ten." 




Mrs. Levison uttered a cry, and sank down 
upon the couch. 

44 Good heavens ! You are a maniac ! You 
are dangerous ! I will get the police ! " 
Mr. Levison rushed towards the bell. 

" Stop ! " said Kromeski, imperatively. 
Mr. Levison halted and turned. " If you 
get the police, nothing can save your house. 
It would take a week of digging to find that 
dynamite. You have only a few minutes." 
Mr. Levison looked at the clock. It was 
five minutes past ten. 

" Good heavens ! " he muttered. " What 
am I to do ? " 

Kromeski rose. He began to saunter 
towards the nearest window that overlooked 
the street. Mr. Levison stood irresolute. 
He had twenty-five valuable minutes in 
which to decide on a course of action. His 
wife seemed in a state of collapse. He went 
to her and endeavoured to comfort her. 
Kromeski pulled the curtains aside, looked 
into the street in a casual way, and then 
turned back. 

" Joseph/** muttered Mrs. Levison, " he is 
a dangerous man — we must get the children 
out of the house." 

" But are we to believe him ? " whispered 
her husband. " It may be lies — it must be 
lies ! " 

Mrs. Levison was silent. Then she sat up 
and looked intently at Kromeski, who was 
examining a small table, covered with 
delicate ivory work. 

44 That is true," she said, in a low voice. 
" It may be simply a clever trick to get 
money out of you." 

The contending emotions upon Mr. Levi- 
son's face began to subside, and a cunning 
expression crept into his eyes. He gave his 
^ wife's hand a squeeze, as if to show he had 
made up his mind, and moved towards 
Kromeski. He stood on the other side of 
the ivory table, thrust his hands into his 
pockets, and eyed him craftily. 

44 Ivory is not a very good medium for 
art," observed Kromeski, critically. ' 4 It is 
flat and cold — altogether too dead." 

4< Dynamite is a better medium for art," 
said Mr. Levison, softly. 4t I mean for the 
art of lying." 

Kromeski looked at him in slight surprise ; 
the other continued with sudden vehemence. 
" Yes, that's what I think you are — a liar ! 
a shameless impostor ! Curse you ! do you 
think you are going to walk into my house 
and tell me a cock-and-bull story for nothing ? 
I'll have you arrested — do you hear ? " 
" Certainly," said Kromeski, si Have me 

arrested, by all means. That will not save 
your house." 

" Indeed ! " sneered Mr. Levison. u And 
what, pray, will save my house ? " 

44 Heaven knows," said Kromeski, soberly ; 
" I'm sure I don't. To me, you are one of 
the most loathsome creatures in London. It 
is said you have never given a penny to 
charity ; it is said you have ruined more 
people than there are hairs on your head. 
You are universally detested. The society 
to which I belong marked you down many 
years ago. When you took this house you 
walked straight into a trap, my friend." 

Mr. J^vison balanced himself on his toes, 
and reflected. Then he leaned across the 
table. All his business cunning was aroused. 

" If you are an Anarchist and wish to 
destroy me, why do you come here to-night 
and warn me ? " 

44 Because our society does not seek to 
destroy life. It destroys property. We hold 
life to be sacred — even lives such as yours — 
and endeavour to save it." 

Kromeski turned away, and left Mr. 
Levison thinking deeply. He was seeking to 
detect a flaw in Kromeski' s attitude. 

44 It was unnecessary for you o come," he 
said, at length ; " you could have merely 

44 True. But would you have paid any 
attention to the letter ? Every very wealthy 
man of your type receives threatening letters 
every day. He flings them into the waste- 
paper basket. I came myself, so that you 
might thoroughly understand, and act as you 
thought best." 

44 An Anarchist does not drink champagne ! " 
exclaimed Mrs. Levison, suddenly, from 
across the room. 

44 Why not, madam ? There is no harm 
in champagne," replied Kromeski, simply. 
44 I do not quarrel with the normal pleasures 
of life. For a man to possess a few good 
pictures, a reasonable house, a few pounds' 
worth of wine in his cellars, is normal. We 
are not fanatics. But to possess more than 
a hundred priceless pictures, to live in a 
palace, to have two thousand pounds' worth 
of wine "in one's cellars — that is a crime 
•against humanity." 

44 Then why did you design the houcc — the 
palace ? " asked Mr. Levison, shrewdly. 

44 To trap people like you. I have designed 
three palaces like this in my lifetime. One 
in New York, one in Paris, and this one 
here in London. The one in New York is 
so much dust, dispersed over the city, together 
with half a man's fortune. The one in Paris 



is just completed } and ? like a gorgeous spider, 
awaits its fly- This one — well, you know all 
about this one, now," 

li Who lived in the New York one ? " asked 
Mr. Levison, sharply. 

11 Lucas Spyer.' 1 

Mrs, Levison uttered an exclamation } and 
Mr, Levison' s colour faded a little. He 
rallied his forces, however, and pointed an 
accusing finder, 

M Lucas Spyer was blown up with his 
house ? M 

" Yes. He refused to believe my story* 
He had me turned out of the house* I 
could do nothing more." i 

Mr. Levison was about to ask another 
question when the footman entered and 
said something to him in u low voice* Levison 
started, A flash of fear showed in his eves, 
Then he nodded. tk I will come at once/' he 
said, and waved the man away. He crossed 
to his wife, " My dear," he whispered, 
bending down, (t a superintendent of the 
police has called. They are probably on 
this man's track." 

" The police ! t$ muttered his wife. 

w Hush ! Not a word ! I will go and sec 
him, I will tell a footman 
to stand outside the door in 
my absence. He will enter 
at a cry from you. Keep the 
madman occupied— keep him 
talking. Tell him the doctor 
has called, and I have gone 
to see him. ?J 

Levison stole out of the 
room, Kromeski studied a 
picture for a minute or two. 
Then he turned, and frowned 

" Where has your husband 
gone ? " he asked, returning 
swiftly. " I 
thought he was 
here ! " 

11 He has gone 
to speak to the 
doctor. One of 
the children i s 
ill. The doctor 
sent in a mes- 
sage to say he 
wished to see Mr, 
I evison. It is 
little David who 
is ill. He is our 
eldest boy. Next 
week he will be 
all right. He 

was taken ill quite suddenly—this even- 

Mrs. Levison paused a moment. It was 
essential to go on talking. Her thoughts ran 
swiftly, and she continued : * Yes, he hud 
a shivering fit, and was a little sick. So we 
thought it was probably a fever. Most 
fevers begin in that way, don't they ? Hut 
he has already had scarlet fever and measles. 
So I don't know what it w + ill he. It may 
be measles again. Docs one have measles 
twice ? ts 

She looked at the Anarchist wistfully. 

" I think not, as a rule/ 1 said Kromeski , 
after a moment's thought. 

1 But I have heard of cases/' said Mrs. 
Levison. She gazed at him helplessly. 
,( What is your real name ? " she cried, at 
last. M Who are you ? " 

Kromeski smiled slightly. 

'That is of no consequence. My names 
and my disguises are many. In ordinary life 
you would not recognize me/' He touched 
his hair and moustache, and continued to 
smile, " I think you should begin to cleaT 
the house/' he added ; ** you have not much 
time left." 

by Google 

Jriqinal from.' 





Mrs. Levison clasped her hands,, and before 
she replied her husband entered. His appear- 
ance gave her a shock of fear. He was very 
white. His eyes seemed to bulge from his 
head and his whole body was trembling. 
She beheld him with horror. 

** Joseph ! " she cried, weakly. 

He took no notice, but went straight to 
Kromeski, She could see he was making a 
powerful effort to control himself. 

11 I have been thinking over what you said/' 

he began, gulping a little and trying to smile* 
11 1 am inclined to believe you are speaking 
the truth. Of course it is difficult to say, very 
difficult/' He gulped again , and steadied 
himself. He continued more calmly: l£ I 
propose to offer you a large sum of money, 
on condition that you stop the time-machine/' 
Kromeski clenched his hands. 
'* Never ! " he said 3 fiercely, 
Levison* s face turned a shade whiter, 
*' The money, of course, woud be for your 
society/ 5 he continued. " I offer ten thousand 
pounds." He gulped, and watched the other 
intently. " Or, rather," he went on, in a 
strained voice, " I offer a sum of twenty 
thousand pounds for the society." 
The Anarchist's face was set like flint* 
" Well/* said Levison, catching at a chair 
to support him, M I will make it thirty 
thousand, I will write a cheque, and also a 

VoLli.-a ' \S 

Original from 



covering letter to my bankers. You will be 
able to cash it in the morning." A slight 
gesture from Kromeski brought his emotion 
to a head. " No, I swear it ! " he shrieked. 
" I will not stop that cheque. You shall 
have the money, if you prevent the explosion. 
I know what you are ! I swear it ! " 

Mrs. Levison stood up and came to her 
husband with outstretched hands. 

" But can he prevent the explosion ? " she 
exclaimed, hysterically. 

Kromeski sat down and looked quietly at 

" Yes. I can stop it," he said, at last. 
" There is a hidden wire in the cellar. If I 
cut it, no explosion will occur. You say 
you will give thirty thousand pounds for the 
cause ? " 

" Yes ! I swear it ! Only, for Heaven's 
sake, stop the explosion ! " Levison' s eyes 
fell on his wife. " It is true ! " he muttered. 
" Good heavens, the dynamite ! " 

" Ring for the cellar keys ! " said Kromeski, 
with sudden sharpness. " Heaven knows if 
I have time to do it. Write that cheque and 
letter at once ! " 

Mrs. Levison rushed to the door and called 
the footman. Her husband staggered to the 
writing-table, took a cheque-book from the 
drawer, and began to write. Kromeski 
leaned over his shoulder. A minute passed, 
and Kromeski straightened himself. He 
held the cheque and letter in his hand. 
Mrs. Levison held the keys out to him. 

" I will go down to the cellar and cut that 
wire," said the Anarchist, coolly. " I have 
a revolver in my pocket. If anyone tries to 
prevent my leaving the house, I will kill 
him. If you stop the cheque, I will shoot 
you, Levison. Do you understand ? " 

Levison nodded. 

" Both of you will stay here," said 
Kromeski, going to the door. " I have four 
minutes left. You may consider yourselves 
very lucky. But for the fact that my 
society needs money, you would not have 
escaped so lightly. Good night." 

He went out of the room, slamming the 
door behind him. Mr. Levison rose, and 
put a shaking finger to his lips. 

" We've got him ! " he whispered to his 
wife. She gazed at him wonderingly. He 
tip- toed to her. " A raid was made to-night 
on the premises of a dangerous Anarchist 
society," he said, hoarsely. " Papers were 
found relating tc Lucas Spyer and to us. 
The police came straight here to warn me." 

" Th?n it is all true ? " she gasped. 

'* Absolutely ti*ue ! But we've got him. 

The superintendent knew, from letters that 
were found, that the society was short of 
money. He suggested my offering money." 

44 Yes, yes," she said, eagerly. " But the 
cheque ! He will cash it ! " 

Mr. Levison, still very white, shook his 
head cunningly. u The police are going to 
arrest him outside. The house is surrounded. 
He will be arrested with the cheque on him — 
a piece of damning evidence ! " 

" Joseph ! " She made as if to embrace 
him. He pushed her away. His eyes were 
on the clock. The sweat poured from his 

" We are not out of danger ! Good 
heavens, the dynamite ! Half a ton of 
dynamite ! " 

44 Supposing he doesn't cut the wire ! " 
she moaned in terror. 

" He'll cut it," he whispered. " The bank 
would be suspicious if the house was blown 
up. They wouldn't cash the cheque. He 
would foresee that." 

They waited hand in hand, until the clock 
pointed to half-past ten. A door banged 
far below in the house, and the sudden sound 
almost made Mrs. Levison faint. 

" He's done it ! " Mr. Levison exclaimed, 
jumping up. " He's gone out ! The police 
will have got him ! " 

He ran out, followed by his wife. The 
front door bell was ringing loudly. There 
was a sound of rapid steps in the hall. Mr. 
Levison went cautiously downstairs, peering 
over the banisters. 

" We've got him, sir ! " cried a hearty 
voice. The superintendent was standing in 
the hall, looking up, his bronzed, honest face 
beaming with pleasure. " We caught him 
at the corner of the street ! " 

" Thank Heaven ! " said Mr. Levison, 
coming down to meet him. 

" A good night's work," said the super- 
intendent ; " our little plan worked out 
well, sir ! " 

Mr. Levison pressed some gold coins into 
the superintendent's hand. Relief rendered 
him speechless. 

" Thank you, sir. If you'd step round to 
the police-station in the morning, we'd be 
much obliged — and Mrs. Levison, too. Good 
night, sir." 

44 Good night ! " cried the Levisons, gaily, 
waving their hands. 

" Take care of the cheque ! " added Mr. 

"Oh, that's all right, sir! We'll look 
after it. %kl!fifeildl : l'ft ,T for evidence against 
him. Good night, sir ," and thank you." 



Next morning, about ten o'clock, Mr, 
Xevison received a message from the police- 
station , asking him to come round and give 
evidence against the prisoner. Accompanied 
by his wife, he drove round in his magni- 
ficent yellow limousine. The Levisons were 
in high spirits. It is difficult, therefore, to 






describe their dismay when they found that 
nothing was known at the police-station about 
the sensational arrest of the previous evening ; 
nor liad any message been telephoned from 
there to Mr. Levison that morning. It was 
only when Mr, Levison discovered, after 
telephoning to his bankers, that the cheque 
had been cashed half 
an hour previously, that 
he began to estimate 
the events of the pre- 
ceding night at their 
true value. For he had 
e n t ertained unawares 
two of the cleverest 
thieves of modern times* 

i I I . 

^1*. r *l"f . ^ --^ *■*" 





Squeeze Your loe an 
Stop the Toothache! 



jE grind and grit our teeth during 
paroxysms of pain. When we 
bump our shins against a chair 
that has taken point of vantage 
directly in our path, immediately 
we clasp the offended shin. 

The marvels of Dr. William R RU- 
ger aid's recently- discovered method of 
relieving pain by pressure. Simply pressure 
at the right spots, He uses it as an anaes- 
thetic in surgical and dental operations, and 
even as a remedy in cases of hay fever 
and of goitre. His claims have thrown 
the medical world into a violent discussion 
of " Zonetherapy," as it is called. Note 
the zones on the patient in the picture. 
This is the first complete account of 
^Zonetherapy" written for the general 

In the days before the blessed era of 
nitrous-oxide and local anaesthetics, when 
the muscular dentist leaned towards the door 
with our pet tooth in the firm embrace of 
shiny forceps, we helped him to the utmost 

by WRffiilftfflKlfly" chair with 


vice-like clutch. This manoeuvre seemingly 
had no more connection with tooth extraction 
than have the rays of the moon with the 
turnip crop. But we felt our duty and we 
did it* 

When fury and anger sw?ep us away, 
and gentle, familiar aspects ol Nature take 
on the hue of bloodj we clench our fists until 
the nails are driven deep into the flesh. In 
the first shock of the agony of bereavement 
or during those cruel dragging hours when we 
are adjusting ourselves to living with our 
hearts torn asunder, we clasp our hands in 

For ages we have been doing these things 
because they are natural and apparently 
inevitable. We did them automatically, 
without knowing why, 

A New Pain-Deadener, 

Now Dr. William H. Fitzgerald, of Hart- 
ford , Connect! cut 7 maintains that these 
actions are not only instinctive but scientific. 
He contends that they produce a form of 
pain-deadening — the doctors call it atuxl- 
gesta — somewhat similar to that which follows 
the injection of water or some anaesthetic 
solution into a nerve. 

Although Dr. Fitzgerald reported some 
of his revolutionary views in a paper more 
than two years ago, the medical and dental 
profession hav pr " not as a whole accepted his 
discoveries. Yt Dr, Fitzgerald's position 

is one that commands respect. He is a 
graduate of the University of Vermont, and 
spent two and a half years in the Boston 
City Hospital. He served two years in the 
Central London Ear, Nose, and Throat 
Hospital. For a like period he was in 
Vienna, where he was assistant to Professor 
Politzer and Professor Otto Chiari, who are 
known wherever medical text- books are 

For several years Dr. Fitzgerald has been 
the head of the nose and throat department 
of St. Francis Hospital in Hartford. He is 
an active member of most of the American 
medical societies, and is recognized as one 
of the great throat and nose surgeons in 
that country. 

Maybe Dr, Fitzgerald's scientific standing 
was higher before he advanced his nerve- 
pressure discoveries. It is a good deal 
to ask even a layman to believe that 
pressing the first joint of his toe will make 
his eye-tooth stop aching, and this m one 
of the most familiar of the doctor's feats 
of medical legerdemain, The Fitzgerald 
method goes much farther. He has proved 
that simply by pressing a definite focal point 
in the particular zone affected pain can be 
relieved in any part of the body where there 
is not present an active inflammatory 

Dr, Fitzgerald does not advance any 
theories explaining his discoveries. He states 






that he did not start out with any hypothesis. 
He deals only with facts. Accident dis- 
closed that pressure on a certain spot in 
the nostril gave practically the same result 
as the use of cocaine. That was six years 
ago. He began experimenting, and he 
found there were many spots in the nose> 
mouth, throat, and on the tongue which, 
when pressed firmly, deadened certain areas 
to all sensation. 

He began using nerve- pressure instead of 
local ansestheties in his operations, and 
now he rarely has any use for cocaine. He 
has charted upwards of three hundred foci 
in the cavities of the nose and throat, in- 
cluding the mouth and tongue. 

Now this nerve-pressure is not infallible. 
It does not work in every case \ but neither 
does morphin. Dr. Fitzgerald has found 
that nerve-pressure will completely obliterate 
pain in about sixty-five per cent- of the cases, 
while it will deaden pain in about eighty per 

In the hands of others who have tried 
nerve-pre-ssure the percentage often is much 
lower, because they have not learned how 
to apply it. The foci are no larger than 
the head of a match. If the operator does 
not hit them he misses them completely, 
and also misses results. They are like 
electric buttons. Pushing in the vicinity 
is utterly useless. The button has to be 

Having accomplished analgesia by nerve- 
pressure, Dr. Fitzgerald went on to make 
a tremendous advance which has called 
much criticism upon his head. He found 

that anything which tended to relieve 
pain also tended to remove its cause, no 
matter what the origin* The assertion 
that pressure on the great toe could cure 
toothache became pale and commonplace 
compared with the statement that this 
same pressure would relieve bronchitis. Of 
course the medical profession shuddered at 
such heresy. 

But Dr. Fitzgerald produced patients 
who had been relieved — do .ors of standing 
fight shy of the word *' cured " — and some 
of his cases were sensational. It is agreed 
by most physicians — and by all members of 
the Hay-Fever Society— that hay- fever is 
incurable. But every victim keeps on Hying 
to be cured. And no victim cares whether 
the treatment which will alleviate his tortures 
is accepted as scientific or not, so long as it 
will do the work. 

The discoverer of the health push-buttons 
cannot remember how many cases of hay- 
fever he has treated. But he has treated 
large numbers of them. And it is not on 
record that the treatment, either in his hands 
or in those of any other who knows how to use 
it, has failed — which many doctors and many 
hay-feverites will say is quite ridiculous. 
The treatment is simple enough — merely 
the forcible stretching with a finger of the 
soft palate in the back of the roof of the mouth 
and those contracted parts of the nasal 
passage where the throat begins and the nose 
ends, together with pressure with a probe 
upon different areas of the tongue and on 
the wall of the pharynx. 


with the foci to determine the proper ones 
to press, a tongue-depressor which covers 
the centre of the tongue will give temporary 
relief, if pressed down firmly for three 

It should be explained that Dr. Fitzgerald 
says that among all the hundreds and hun- 
dreds of hay-fever victims that have come 
under his care not one had an absolutely 
normal nose. Invariably there have been 
bony spurs or protruding bones, or deviated 
or twisted cartilages, or else an inflamed 
mucous membrane lining* 

Nerve-pressure has accomplished remark- 
able results with goitre. This swelling in 
the neck results from some abnormality 
of the thyroid gland, which either gives off 
too much secretion or not enough. One 
way to determine is to give the patient 
thyroid extract from the dry powdered 
glands of a sheep. If the goitre disappears 
the treatment is correct. If it increases, it 
is plain he has already too much thyroid 
secretion, and the patient must, by the 
old method, part with most of his thyroid 

To relieve a patient from the feeling of 
suffocation, the rapid heart-action, and the 
distressing nervous symptoms of goitre, 
Dr. JFitzgerald experimented with nerve- 
pressure. He applied a probe to the back 
wall of the pharynx, passing it through 
the nostril. To his surprise he found that 
not only was discomfort lessened, but the 
nervous symptoms and the swelling began 
to decrease. 

In the past fifteen months Dr. Fitzgerald 
has treated twenty-one cases of goitre, many 
.of them of the exophthalmic variety — which 
means protruding eyeballs, heart symptoms, 
and most unsightly swelling. Twelve of 
these have been discharged as cured, while 
eight others are on the high road to recovery. 
The tape-measure showed that in some 
of these cases the swelling decreased three 
inches in as many weeks. The only treat- 
ment these patients received was pressure 
on a particular push-button for a few minutes 
every day. 

Of these twenty-one cases one proved 
intractable. She was sent to a gynaecologist, 
who found she was suffering from a large 
tumour in the same zone as the goitre. 

This case and many experiments seem to 
support Dr. Fitzgerald's contention that the 
human body has independent nerve zones, 
and that pressure upon the centres controlling 
these areas affects abnormal conditions in 
every part of the particular zone. 

Push-Buttons in Fingers and Toes. 

The Hartford physician divides the body 
into ten perpendicular zones, including the 
line running up the middle of the body, and 
these zones correspond to the fingers of the 
hand or the toes. One using his method 
must know what hand or foot to press, 
and how, in order to get a definite desired 

If the first joint of the thumb is pressed 
firmly and steadily for three minutes, it 
will relieve and favourably influence pain in 
the stomach, the chest, the front teeth, the 
nose, the great .toe, as well as everything 
else in this zone. But it will have not the 
slightest influence upon the tonsils, the 
liver, or the spleen, for they are in the fourth 
zone, and to affect them it is necessary to 
make pressure upon the fourth finger. Fur- 
thermore, pressure on the right hand will 
not have any effect on the left half of the 

It makes a difference, too, whether the 
upper and lower or the side surfaces of the 
joint are pressed. A physician experiment- 
ing with the method was ready to condemn 
it because he was unable to relieve a patient 
who complained of rheumatic pains which 
seemed to centre on the outer side of the 
ankle-bone. The doctor grasped the second 
joint of the patient's right little finger and 
pressed firmly for a minute on the top and 
bottom of the joint. The pain persisted, 
and the doctor jeered at the method. 

A disciple of Dr. Fitzgerald smiled. He 
said there was an error in technique, and 
suggested that the doctor should press the 
sides of the finger, instead of the top and 
bottom. This was done, and the pain dis- 
appeared in two minutes. 

In the pursuit of his own specialty Dr. 
Fitzgerald found that the teeth played a 
highly important part, as decay in them 
evilly affected the throat, particularly the 
tonsils, and had an especially vicious effect 
upon goitre. He declares he never has seen 
a case of goitre in which there was not some- 
thing wrong with the teeth. So he insisted 
that his patients should seek a dentist. 
This led to experimenting with nerve- 
pressure in connection with dentistry. 

Now it may seem a joke to ease pain in the 
great toe by pressing one's thumb ; but a 
toothache is never a joke, and no remedy 
that will ease it is funny. Any human being 
suffering from a tooth aching in an earnest, 
conscientious manner would be willing to 
stand on his hmxl en the mere chance of 
escaping; the toru^f ^£|-fl§,f<ff the suffering 



of having a cavity excavated in a very 
much alive toothy anything that helps is 
embraced rapturously. 

There are about twentv dentists in Hart- 


ford who use the Fitzgerald method in their 
daily practice in preference to any other 
ansesthetic* Its particular value is as an 
analgesic — a pain-deadener— in the process 
of removing tartar deposits and in preparing 
cavities to be filled. 

Dr. B. A, Sears, of Hartford, one of the 
extraction experts of New England, and 
president s>i the local dental society , has 
used nerve-pressure anaesthesia in more 

with thumb and finger over the root of the 
tooth operated upon. If this seems ridicu- 
lous to you , try it some time when you have 
an aching tooth. Start gently, increasing 
the pressure, and holding steadily for three 
minutes. Maybe your thumb and finger 
will ache more than the tooth* If the nerve 
is not exposed and there is no abscess at the 
root of the toothy this pressure will stop the 
aching every time. 

The dentists who yse the nerve-pressure 
method find the application of the pressure 
to the fingers efficacious for excavating, filling, 
and scaling deposits. Pressure on either 








than three hundred cases of extracting teeth, 
with wholly satisfactory results. He has 
employed this in operations so serious as 
those of removing impacted molars and cutting 
out parts of the jaw— thirty-five minutes of 
sanguinary work. 

The best results are obtained through the 
use of a probe directly upon the nerve where 
it exits from the jaw-bone. On each sidtr 
there are two foci — the heel of the jaw, 
known to the profession as the ** tuberosity 
of the superior maxillary/' and the inferior , 
or lower, dental nerve, where it emerges 
from the ramus or groove of the lower jaw. 
The blunt end of an excavator makes a 
capital probe- 

Try it Your*«lf * 

Many operators prefer to make pressure 

thumb will keep the front teeth and the 
canines quiet ; the first finger controls the 
bicuspids ; while the middle finger will make 
the molars behave despite the dentist's direst 
efforts j although the third finger may be 
called in to help. The little linger does not 
do much work, for it bears only upon the 
wisdom teeth. 

The patient may apply the pressure himself, 
but the dentist or his assistant can do it 
better. It may be applied to both top and 
bottom and sides of the first joint of the 
thumb and finger. Pressure should be 
just short of pain. Usually the patient 
says that his fingers feci numb, and this 
numbness gradually extends through the 
arm and over the body in that particular 


the nerve-pressure method is effective to a 
remarkable degree. But it has its drawbacks, 
because it gives excuse to postpone treatment. 
At best it is only a temporary relief so far as 
teeth are concerned, except when the trouble 
is neuralgic. 

For and Against 

Long before the outside world heard any- 
thing about the nerve-pressure method, Dr. 
Fitzgerald had to withstand much ridicule 
in his home town. For four years he had not 
one single supporter. But he went along, 
advancing no theories, no explanations. He 
merely demonstrated clinical facts. 

When he read his first paper before a dental 
convention, bringing patients as. evidence, 
he made converts. But when he appeared 
before a medical convention the storm broke. 
The one thing that saved him was his stand- 
ing and reputation, won before he announced 
his discovery. 

Dental conventions were more tolerant 
than medical organizations. Possibly Dr. 
Fitzgerald's declaration that the care and 
preservation of the teeth are far more impor- 
tant in maintaining health than had hitherto 
been recognized may have had something to 
do with the dental attitude. 

The Hartfe^d doctor believes we should 
strive to keep all our original teeth to preserve 
the continuity, if it may be so termed, of 
our various nerve zones. Sound, healthy 
teeth and roots, in their proper occlusion, 
seem to assist in the normal functioning of 
the entire zone chain, of which they are 
important links. 

Some of the foremost dentists, widely 
recognized for their scientific attainments, 
opposed Dr. Fitzgerald as actively as the 
conservative physicians. In the North-East 
Dental Convention, held in Boston, Dr. 
Richard H. Reithmueller, instructor of 
anaesthesia in the Philadelphia Dental College 
and also editor of Denial Cosmos, one 01 
the ablest and most scholarly investigators 
in this country, voiced the sentiments of the 

He declared that the claims of Dr. Fitz- 
gerald were absurd, and that the results 
must necessarily be from mental suggestion. 
He said that every doctor worthy to be a 
member of his profession knows the anatomy 
of the nervous system is as definite as is the 
anatomy of the muscles or the bones. The 
division of the nervous system into longi- 
tudinal zones is ridiculous. And if it were 
accepted it would discredit the labours of 
all the anatomists from whe Greek Fathers of 

Vol. lu-4. 

Medicine down to Dr. Rufus B. Weaver, 
whose work is the last and most complete 
word in nervous anatomy. 

Nothing Final — Even in Anatomy. 

What Dr. Reithmueller said about Dr. 
Weaver is true enough. He is Professor 
of Anatomy in Hahnemann College of Phila- 
delphia. This marvellous and steady-handed 
anatomist, after eight months of delicate 
labour, part of the time working eighteen 
hours a day, succeeded in mounting a com- 
plete human nervous system upon a card- 
board, crystallizing the anatomy of the 
nervous system for all time, as we medical 
men thought. 

But from Dr. Fitzgerald's clinic it seems 
we knew dnly one nervous system. If his 
findings are true, we shall learn yet another 
branch of anatomy. 

To return to Dr. Reithmueller, his position 
was that of a scientific man who did not 
consider the evidence presented to him 
sufficient to overturn the accepted facts of 
thousands of years. He did not question 
the honesty of Dr. Fitzgerald and his 
followers, but he was sure they were self- 

Last June the New Hampshire Dental 
Society held a convention at Weirs, on 
Lake Winnepesaukee. One of the residents 
of the summer colony was brought before 
the convention on the evening of June 23rd. 
Her serious condition baffled the local phy- 
sicians. It was hoped that among the two 
hundred scientific men gathered there from 
all parts of the East some might be found 
who could help her. 

She was a woman about thirty-five years 
old, well nourished and apparently healthy, 
apart from a large swelling in the front of 
the neck. Manifestly the thyroid and other 
glands had become enlarged through some 
unknown inflammatory cause. She was suffer- 
ing great pain. The slightest touch caused 
excruciating agony. Swallowing was impos- 
sible. Not even a drop of water had passed 
down her throat since the preceding Friday 
night. This was Wednesday night. 

A healthy human being can exist from 
seven to ten days without water. This 
woman had been without water 'or five 
days, suffering mental and physical "orture. 
Her physician insisted that an operation 
should be performed at once as the only means 
of saving her life. The half-dozen or more 
physicians who had been called in consulta- 
tion concurred in this. There was nothing 
left mv I ^wr^peffdrai' 'I 'an I'-JJtmubation — the 



insertion of a tube in the gullet, through 
which water and food might be passed, 
pending some possible measure of relief. 

Dr. Reithmueller was among those whose 
sympathies had been aroused by the patient's 
condition. He personally sought out a 
New York physician and asked him to make 
a diagnosis. The heart was racing along at 
one hundred and fifty beats a minute, and 
there were all the peculiar symptoms usually 
associated with thyroid disturbances. Inas- 
much as the whole trouble had developed 
in a week, it was most unlikely that the 
condition was goitrous. 

As it was probable that the trouble was 
associated with the thyroid, the physician 
decided to try the Fitzgerald treatment, 
because it could be applied instantly and 
promised immediate results if successful. 

Calling Dr. Leo Stern, of New York, to 
make strong pressure over the first joint of 
one thumb, the doctor grasped the other 
thumb. This simple, apparently foolish, 
treatment was maintained for three minutes. 
The patient began to show signs of relief. 
The drawn lines on her face softened ; she 
could bear the touch on her neck without 

The doctor sent for a glass of water and 
held it to the patient's lips. She shook her 
head. The doctor nodded encouragingly. 
She took a sip of water. She swallowed it 
with much difficulty and pain — the first 
drop in five days. 

" It is the most delicious beverage I ever 
tasted," she whispered. 

She was able to swallow about a third of 
a glass upon her first attempt. The pressures 
were resumed intermittently for about an 
hour, and within that time she was able 
to drink four glasses of water and a glass of 
malted milk. A light rubber band was 
placed over her thumb joints and she enjoyed 
her first night's sleep since the inflammation 
had developed. 

The next morning she reported that she 
was almost entirely relieved. The swelling 
was hardly perceptible, and she could bear 

reasonable pressure over the glands with- 
out discomfort. She had no difficulty in 
swallowing. In fact, she practically was 
fully recovered. 

My attitude towards this case is exactly 
like that of Dr. Reithmueller, who said : "I 
wouldn't believe it if I hadn't seen it with 
my own eyes." 

No wonder the medical world cannot 
accept Dr. Fitzgerald. I would not accept 
him myself on hearsay or through reading. 
No one could have been more sceptical than I 
when I first heard about his work. But 
when I had seen more than two hundred 
cases ; when I found that I or any competent 
medical man can do just what Dr. Fitz- 
gerald does if he takes pains to learn the 
methods, it was a question of whether or not 
I should accept incontrovertible evidence of 
my own senses. 

The theory that the Fitzgerald method 
owes its success to suggestion will not hold 
water. In the first place, it does not matter 
whether or not the patient believes in it — 
and belief is an essential in suggestion — nor 
whether he knows what the doctor is doing. 
Then, too, the treatment works with the 
certainty of a problem in mathematics. If 
the pressure is not made in the proper zone 
and in the proper way, and for a sufficient 
length of time, inevitably the results will be 

There does not seem to be any reasonable 
hypothesis developed thus far to explain the 
Fitzgerald method, but the plain facts are 
interesting scientific men even if they are 
not ready to accept the treatment. Dr. 
Fitzgerald was asked to make addresses 
all across the continent on his way to 
the Panama Exposition, where he was 
invited to read a paper on " Pressure 
Anaesthesia" before the World's Dental 

There are three things that speedily com- 
mend the Fitzgerald treatment. It is abso- 
lutely harmless ; it is readily learned by any 
physician who will take the trouble to master^ 
it ; and it is free. 

by Google 

Original from 


A Cknstmas Story 

From the Russian of 


Illustrated by Warwick Reynolds. 

The work of Nemirovich-Danchenko, the most human of Russian novelists, 
is already known to readers of "The Strand Magazine/' The following 
little story seems as if it might have been inspired by the author of "A 

Christmas Carol/' 


HE winter evening had only 
just begun. Here and there 
the last rays of daylight still 
lingered, though the tall 
steeple of the fortress and 
the church domes were already 
enveloped in gloom. Sweet 
peace- descended from the cloudless sky. In 
the windows lights were already appearing. 

" The Bogey-Man ! Look, there's the 
Bogey-Man ! " 

A group of children playing on the pave- 
ment suddenly dispersed in all directions ; 
screaming and stumbling against each other, 
they hid round corners and dived into porches. 
" Look out ! The Bogey-Man's coming ! " 
sounded on all sides in shrill voices. 

A snowball caught the man in the back, but 
he took no notice. A second boy grew bolder 
and hurled a piece of wood between his legs ; 
the man stumbled, but did not stop. An 
intent look was in his eyes, as if he dared not 
glance around him. 

The Bogey-Man, as the street children called 
him, was not at all formidable. On the con- 
trary, he was more a pitiful object than any- 
thing else. Like a reed that bends to the 
wind, his tall, -thin body swayed in all 
directions. The bony shoulders protruded, 
emphasizing painfully the narrowness of the 
sunken chest. His hands were large and red 
and dangled awkwardly out of the short, 
rusty sleeves of the thin overcoat, and in the 
same gawky manner the long neck stretched 
out of the collar. 

In the wrinkled face the most noticeable 
feature was the big red nose, which hung low 

beard. The thin overcoat was worthy of its 
owner. Apparently, neither he nor any- 
body else ever brushed it — a pathetic sign 
of the old man's loneliness and desolation. 

Except in his own street, where he was a 
familiar figure, everywnere he was noticed 
with wonder and dismay. Even policemen 
were puzzled by his strange appearance, 
while nurses used him to threaten wayward 

" Look ! Look ! Here comes the Bogey- 
Man ! He'll swallow you up ! " 

Sometimes this was sufficient to quiet the 
fractious child ; if not, the nurse appealed 
directly to the old man. 

" Please, sir, just give him a fright. I can 
do nothing with him. Just prod him with 
your finger." 

A curious change came over the old man 
on these occasions. He instantly brightened 
up ; the lowered eyelids were raised, and a kind 
look fell on the child, a look so gentle that it 
seemed to caress every feature of the little 
face. The bristling hair parted over the 
mouth, disclosing a tender smile. Where 
did this smile come from ? It was as if a 
brilliant, dazzling fairy unexpectedly flew 
out of a dust-heap. 

Then the old man seemed once more to 
collapse, to shrink within himself, and he 
shuffled away as fast as his hesitating steps 
could take him. 

For a long time he could not get composed, 
and as he paced, dazed and unconscious, 
street after street and square after square, 
he looked like a solitary black crow. 

Original, from 

over the lips and almost touched a bristling Every bird has' tfs'jie&t : -fivery beast its 


den. The Bogey 
also had his lair. 

He occupied the 
ground-floor flat in a big 

This flat presented a 
curious spectacle. It was 
the kingdom of darkness, 
dust, and dirt. Nothing 
had been touched here 
for twenty years ; for 
twenty years these 
melancholy rooms had 
never been tidied nor 
cleaned out. The old 
man kept no servant, 
Once a day he entered 
a shop to purchase food. 
It was wrapped up in 
paper and he put it into 
his pocket, but 
more frequently 
than not forgot to 
eat it. For twenty 
years he had re- 
ceived no visitor. 
Vet he was not 
quite alone ; he 
lived with thi* 

phantoms bom in his excited 
brain, listening to sounds that 
did not exist, leading a life 
that was a mystery to every- 
one. His home was a mass 
of mice, beetles, cobwebs, and 
dust. Dust lay an inch thick 
on the floors and on the once 
h a n dso m e#f u rn i tu re, Cob w r ebs 
draped the windows and 
banished the light, 
disfigured the pictures., 
shrouded the mirrors, 
rotted the books. 

Occasionally the 
postman brought a 

1 What is this ? " 
"* It's for you, isn't 


" What for ? n 

li Aren't you Mr, 
Satine ? " 

g Yes — yes— I'm 
Satine/" the old man 
answered vaguely, as 
though doubting his 
own identity. 

He took the letters, 
threw them aside, and 
immediately forgot 
them. They were from 
relations who knew he 
had money and wrote 
to him at intervals, 
but he never troubled 
to find out what they 
had to saw 



Original from 



His landlord was horrified at the condition 
of the flat* More than once he was on the 
point of giving his eccentric tenant notice, 
but the old man paid well and never asked 
for anything. 

Once , meeting him outside, the landlord 
himself suggested repairs. 

The Bogey-Man humbly took off his hat 
and mumbled, beseechingly : — 

" FH pay a bigger rent — anything you like 
— only leave me alone, Don r t bother me 1 M 

And so the matter dropped. 

One may well wonder what was the fas* 
cination of these walls for the .solitary old man. 
Did he cling to them because there were 
phantoms lurking in every corner ? They 
were everywhere — in the moth-eaten furni- 
ture, among the yellowed papers on the 
writing-table, in the silent notes of the piano. 

Memories of his happy past assailed him 
when he dropped into a dingy old armchair 
and peered into the dusty space. After a 
moment or two of breathless waiting a smile 
— a once idolized smile— i I lu mined the room 
and disappeared. He heard the soft patter- 
patter ol little feet , of naked, plump, delicate 
little feet, yet wonderfully quick, 

" Are you there, daddy ? Good night, 
daddy," And the little feet ran back, and 

something white fluttered for one moment 
near the door. 

Sometimes he waited for hours, not daring 
to move, listening to every sound, to every 
rustle. And, all at once, somewhere quite 
close, a child's laughter broke the stillness, 
the careless, joyous laughter of a spoilt 
child. He listened with bated breath, his 
aching eyes glued to the door. 

More rarely, the rooms echoed with a 
child's song, a simple little song of three 
notes, and the quavering, cracked old voice 
made desperate efforts to sing in tune with 
the silver, liquid tones* 

Lighting a candle, the old man searched 
with the obstinacy o£ a maniac for the marks 
of the little feet. He never found them. 
The only imprints he saw on the dusty floor 
were left there by the mice and his own big, 
clumsy boots. 

When his aching knees refused to support 
him and he could grovel in the dust no 
longer, he placed the candle on the table. 
Dropping once more into the armchair, he 
stared at the flame. After a time his eyelids 
closed from sheer exhaustion and he fell 
asleep. In his sleep he always found the 
road that eluded him in his waking hours— 
the long, wide, straight raad that led unfail- 
ingly tp^^^yQ^^I^-Jpast, 



Twenty years 
were obliterated— 
twenty years of 
anguish, of loneli- 
ness and pain- Once 
more he was young, 
robust , and happy. 
Once more a baby 
voice cooed into his 
car : — 

" Good morning, 
daddy; dear 
daddy ! ? ' 

t( My son , my 
beloved boy ! " His 
strong arms opened 
wide — and he 
entered the happy 

Her — his wife — 
he had long ago 
forgotten in his 
loneliness. But be- 
fore oblivion came, 
for years and years 
lie thought of her 
only as the creature 
who had ruined his 

Now , in the happy land of the past, he 
beheld her as she was in the first flush of 
their love — adorable, beautiful, bewitching. 
How fathomless were her eyes ! 

" You know, I can hardly bear to look 
into them/' he whispered to her now, as he 
did years ago* , 

u Why, dearest ? " 

" It is like looking into a fathomless sea ; 
they are full of mystery/ 1 

He saw her plainly through his lowered 
eyelids. Her slender figure swayed lightly 
from side to side ; her soft, red lips seemed 
to shed a radiance. 

Such had been their life together. Sud- 
denly, in the cloudless sky, a tiny speck 
appeared. Was it a cloud ? 

41 Don't you think, dearest, that the 
country palls on one ? It isn't really life, 
you know." 

He gazed at her searchingly, far he did 
not understand. 

"Not life?" 

Mow, he understands her meaning. 
He has suffered so much that he has 
learnt to understand* Then, he could not 
make it out. When they were married 
she was practically a child, At first their 
great love obscured everything. Afterwards 

—well, perhaps even love palls after a 

They came to town, and soon they were 
lost in its feverish life. The tide swallowed 
them, as it has swallowed so many others 

They took this flat— only it was quite 
different then — everything was fresh , bright, 
and dainty. 

They were still happy, but, somehow, 
clouds accumulated. Town life, with its 
nerve-racking bustle, sowed discontent be- 
tween them. His wife's grey eyes grew 
more mysterious— he himself changed unac- 
countably. From day to day the rift 
between them widened. And then— then the 
storm broke. How well he remembered the 
eve of the catastrophe ! 

The nightmare of these memories was 
suffocating the sleeping man. He moved 
restlessly and moaned aloud. 

He saw himself , lying prone, in this very 
room. He had come to his senses at last, 
but he was almost senseless with misery and 
grief. He was alone ! Both his wife and 
child had gone- they had left him ! Silence 
w*as all around him* 

It may seem strangej but the Bogey-Man 





Then: was a hack room in his flat ; many, 
many years ago it was used as a nursery, 
and a nursery it had remained. The man 
who himself lived in sordid neglect looked 
after this room with extraordinary solicitude. 
The kingdom of dirt and dust, of cobwebs 
and beetles* ended abruptly on its threshold. 
Here everything 
was clean, even 
the windows. 
Every morning 
the Bogey-Man, 
with his own 
hands, swept and 
dusted the nur- 
sery. Sometimes 
he passed a whole 
evening here, and 
in this room only 
did he light a 

In the corner 
stood a child's 
bed, A clean 
c o v e r le t was 
spread over it, 
and one of its 
ends was turned 
up for the night. 
The pillow - case 

and sheets were changed regularly, though 
no one had crumpled them for twenty 

Every time the unfortunate father entered, 
he blessed the little bed and murmured 
softly :— 

*' Sleep, my boy ! Sleep, my laddie ! ** 

Original from 





He refused to believe that the child was 
not there, and his imagination did the rest. 

Sitting at the bedside, he would close his 
eyes and strain his ears to catch the soft, 
regular breathing of the child. And at last 
not only did he hear the child breathe, but 
it seemed to him he saw it moving under the 
coverlet. He smiled then, and the dim old 
eyes shed tears. Sometimes he placed odd 
pieces of stuff under the bedclothes, to 
intensify his illusion that a child lay there. 
On these occasions he turned down the wick 
of the lamp and sat farther away from the 
bed, but his eyes remained hungrily fixed on 
it, and his attention never wavered for an 

" My laddie, dear laddie, are you asleep ? 
Father is with you ! " 

Sometimes also he would start telling 
a story. His hesitating, quavering voice 
sounded sadly in the little room. He fancied 
his boy was sitting up in bed, listening with 
all his might to the wonderful tale. Gradually 
the senile voice grew firmer ; he became 
himself engrossed in the subject ; he waved 
his hands — now barked as a wolf, now 
clucked as a hen ; until, in the very midst of 
his aqtics, his voice suddenly broke off. In 
horrified dismay he stared at the child's bed. 
It was empty ! The sheets were quite 
smooth ! All around was dead silence ! 

Swaying like a drunken man, once more he 
approached the bed. He sank on his knees 
and laid his aching head on his son's pillow, 
and so he remained until his rheumatic 
legs could stand the cold contact of the floor 
no longer, or until the lamp went out, and he 
and his Paradise were plunged in darkness. 

Everything remained here intact, just as 
it had been in the child's time. 

The big table was covered with toys — all 
the boy's favourite toys ; not a single one 
was missing. 

Here was the iron kitchen with the broken 
pans, where many a make-belief meal was 
cooked ; on a chair close by hung even the 
tiny apron that the little cook donned very 
seriously on these occasions. Here was the 
dresser full of crockery, and, beside it, a faded 
wax hussar who had lost one eye and the right 
arm in a long-forgotten battle. Here also 
was a whole collection of smart ladies, cut 
out of a fashion journal. The last evening 
the boy put them to bed and covered them up, 
and, like the sleeping beauty in the fairy- 
tale, they were still waiting to be roused by his 
kiss. There was the toy theatre ; the curtain 
was raised, each actor was at his post and 

was waiting for the audience. It was time 
to begin the drama or the farce. The woolly 
little dog was also waiting for the absent 
master, and so were the sailors in the black 
boat their oars were raised ; they -were 
expecting the signal that would send them 
sailing over the seas. But the boy did not 
return ! 

There was still another table ; here the 
boy learnt his lessons. His books were 
scattered about just as he left them ; the 
inkpot and pens, and an open copybook — 
nothing had been touched. If the boy 
returned, he could dip the pen in the ink and 
continue to write from where he had broken 
off. How vividly the old man remembered 
the hours that he passed here with his boy ! 
The child bored him sometimes ; he was 
often in a hurry to get away. Good God ! 
Now, for a single hour passed here with his 
son, he would gladly barter his soul ! If 
only he could once again guide the soft little 
hand on the paper, no sufferings, however 
great, no future, however promising, would 
be too much to pay for such bliss ! 

The boy's clothes were in a chest — little 
garments the mother had left behind, dis- 
carded tiny shirts that the boy had out- 
grown. The lonely old man often examined 
them one by one. He rained kisses on them 
and would not have parted with these 
treasures for any price. This old rubbish 
was all that was left him of his past joys ! 

Occasionally, when he was in the nursery, 
handling his boy's toys or sitting near his 
bed, he saw a face peering through the 
curtainless window. 

Somebody's hungry gaze seemed to dispute 
his sole right to the dreary joys of his sad 
Paradise. Yet, when he came close to the 
window, he could see nothing except the dark 
night. Finally he came to the conclusion 
that the face peering through the window was 
only a fancy of his erratic mind. At last 
he scarcely noticed it. 

Yet the face remained glued to the glass, 
the hungry eyes continued their vigil, until 
the old man put out the light and retired to 
the squalor of the other rooms. 

The cold night alone then saw a demented 
old woman sha'ke with convulsive sobs out- 
side the nursery window and beat her head 
against the wall. 

It was Christmas Eve to-night, the twen- 
tieth he had passed alone. He felt even sadder 
than usual. 

He felt inclined to stay at home — not to 
mar the brilliant appearance of the illuminated 



streets ; but, in the end, some impulse drove 
him out as usual. 

All the houses were lighted up. Small 
Christmas-trees were in every shop window ; 
gilt nuts, apples and toys of every description 
hung in gaudy festoons to attract the eye. 
Belated fathers carried little fir-trees. Their 
needles trembled in the frosty air and dropped 
at every jerk of the branches. 

The Bogey-Man looked at these happy 
people. He gazed into the windows, and 
everywhere he saw Christmas-trees and 
myriads of lights. He watched the children ; 
in their bright festive clothes they looked 
like wonderful flowers. How they recalled 
his son ! He also had waited for his Christ- 
mas-tree with the same eager impatience. 
How that baby boy in pink reminded him 
of his laddie ! The same fair hair, the same 
vivacity, the same bright eyes. 

Suddenly, for the first time, a mad idea 
took hold of him. He waved his hands, as 
though to shake off the thought, but it 
refused to be driven away. It whispered 
insistently into his ear and oppressed his 
whole being. 

It was twenty years since he had a treat — 
twenty interminable pain-stricken years. 

44 I'm ill, my strength is sinking fast. 
Why should I not humour myself, now the 
end is so near ? " 

More insistently still the new idea whis- 
pered to him : — 

14 Get a Christmas-tree to-night." 

" For whom ? " asked the lonely old man, 
'almost aloud. " Who will come to me ? " 

44 Get a Christmas-tree for your memories 
— they are always with you ! " 

The idea appealed to him. He turned back. 
Should he enter the shop ? 

He did so. All the customers looked 
round, and their faces expressed surprise. 

" What tree would you like ? Here's a 
fine one — and this one is fit for a palace." 

44 How much ? I want a better one " 

44 Here's one for three roubles." 

" He's stark mad," somebody whispered. 

The old man laid the money on the counter. 

44 1 want some candles and some toys." 

44 Yes sir ; will you look lound ? ' 

And now only did the Bogey-Man cast a 
look round him. 

On all sides were wide-open boxes full of 
gilt nuts and sweets elaborately wrapped in 
paper ; hundreds of toys — horses, rabbits, cats, 
and dogs — stolidly stared in front of them. 
Imposing elephants stood in the window, their 
trunks poised in the air, as though they were 
anxious not to hurt some sailors in a boat 

VoL 1L-5. 

who had mistaken a heap of apples for the 
sea. Rows and rows of crackers hung in 
festoons overhead, waiting their turn to 
explode and die. Theirs was a curious des- 
tiny, a silly fate ! So seemed to think a 
number of little Father Christmases in their 
winter garb of white chalk instead of snow, 
for each time they were touched they gravely 
shook their heads. 

The Bogey-Man was bewildered. He had 
not seen anything like this for ages. His 
memory completely failed him ; he forgot 
where he was and how he came to be there* 

44 Laddie, what would you like ? Choose, 
dear " 

The salesman edged away from him 

44 If there's anything else I can do fof 
you " 

The old man came to himself. He bought 
several things and, bending under the weight 
of the Christmas-tree, went back into the 

The policeman, who was always expecting 
the Bogey-Man would sooner or later be 
dragged to the police-station, was so amazed 
at seeing him thus laden that he even 
touched his hat. But the quaint figure 
walked rapidly on. The old man felt extra- 
ordinarily happy now. 

When he locked his outside door and 
carried his purchases into his dusty den, the 
vision once more reappeared outside the 
nursery window. The old woman stood 
there* stealthily, trying not to attract atten- 
tion, but she eagerly watched all the man's 
movements inside. 

He set to work with feverish haste. He 
lit the lamp and carried the Christmas-tree 
into the nursery, where it occupied all 
the middle of the room. He set it on a 
stool, and soon all the candles were lit. The 
lights flared up one by one and burned 
brightly. By contrast, the pale lamp, Under 
its blue shade, seemed to lower its eyelids 
and drop asleep. A moment or two later 
the boughs of the tree were bending under 
the weight of the toys and fruit. 

44 There's your Christmas-tree, my boy ! 
It is the last time daddy will make you one. 
Next year he will no longer ,be in this world." 

Once more his mind was wandering. Again 
he fancied he heard the patter of little feet 
in the adjoining room. 

44 My boy is coming ! " he muttered, and 
fastened the last toy to the tree. '* How 
delighted he'l! be.! " 

Everything was ready. But why did the 
boy not came ? The patter-putter of the 



W Bf On gin a I from 




little feet had died away. Alone the rustle 
of the branches and the spluttering of the 
candles broke the deadly silence. 

The man dropped into a chair. 

The warm air vibrated above the lights, 
and in it he saw his whole life pass in front 
of him. Happy faces peeped at him from 
among the boughs of the Christmas-tree — 
they appeared and vanished. 

But still the boy did not come ! 

All the time a pair of hungry eyes were 
watching outside the window. An old 
woman's face was glued to the cold panes. 
Her breath dimmed the glass, and she wiped 
it stealthily in her eagerness not to miss a 
single light, a single toy on the wonderful 
tree, so unlike herself and the man inside. 

And the more she gazed, the faster her 
tears fell, and her wrinkled mouth mumbled 
again and again : — 

44 Volia s Christmas-tree ! Volia's Christ- 
mas-tree ! " 

*' When you left your husband, when you 
refused to condone what time would have 
blotted out, did you consider your child ? " 
raid a voice within her. " Did you consider 
what fate you were condemning him to ? 
When, out of sheer pride, you refused to 
ask that man for help, though you knew he 
would have done anything for the sake of 
the child, did you consider that your child 
would droop and die from want and neglect ? 
You forgot you were a mother ! " 

Loud as a clamorous peal of bells the 
words rang in her ears. She alone heard 
them, and lower and lower sank her head. 

The man sat in his chair and dared not 
move. He was trembling from head to foot ; 
his legs felt numb, and he stared into the 
opposite corner. What was there ? 

Perched on a high stool, a child, a boy, was 
sitting. When and how did he appear ? 
The bright little face looked straight at his 
father ; the frail, tiny hands were stretched 
towards him. 

44 How do you do, daddy ? " 

The old man put his hand to his head. 

" How do you do, daddy ? Didn't you 
call me ? " 

" Oh, my son ! " He wished to rise, but 
he had not the strength — his legs refused to 
support him. 

44 How old you have become, daddy ! 
Where's mummy ? " 

The man shuddered. 

" Where's mummy ? Listen, father ! " 
How gravely sounded the baby voice ! "Is 
that Christmas-tree for me ? " 

" Yes," came the awed whisper. 

Not for an instant did the child take his 
intent gaze off his father. 

4i Give me mummy for my Christmas-tree. 
It's all I care for. It's such a long time 
since I've seen my mummy. Where is she ? 
Give her to me." 

" Your mother killed you," hissed the man. 

" You did not see what I saw, father. 
You did not see how she suffered. Mummy 
cried — night and day she cried. She cried 
when she put me to bed, and when I woke 
in the night I heard her crjping still. She 
suffered more than you did. Give her back 
to me, father." 

The sweet, earnest voice had grown sterner. 
But it was not his son who is speaking ; it was 
the old man's own conscience. He trembled 
under the direct gaze of the child, and all 
his nerves were tingling. 

" What have you done with my mummy ? 
Shall I look for her ? " The child s voice 
softened and grew more tender. " Daddy ! 
I can't bear it ! Don't be angry with mummy 
any more. Give her to me." 

44 I don't know where she is," came the 
broken answer. 

44 She's there, outside that window. She's 
crying — go to her ; go, father ! Bring her 
in here, daddy ! Give her to me." 

The child's eyes, glowing with love, were 
fixed on the window. 

The man tore himself from his seat and 
went out into the black night. 

The old woman was unconscious of his 
approach. She was still gazing hungrily at 
the Christmas-tree, at the child s bed, at 
the toys. At last he was quite close to her. 
He took her by the hand. u Come ! Come ! " 
he said, pulling her forward. u Come ! " 

In spite of her endeavour to pull back, he 
held her tight. 

44 Come ! Your son is calling you ! " 

The words acted like magic ; she became 
as wax in his hands, 'lhey entered the 
house. Both hearts were beating fast. 

Volia's Christmas- tree was no longer aglow 
with lights ; they had burnt down to their 
sockets. He himself had disappeared. 'I he 
nursery was empty. No one was perched on 
the high stool. Volia's wish had been 
gratified ; he had received his mummy, and 
he had gone away. 

But softly, above them, floated the image 
of a boy. And the old couple heard a 
tender and forgiving voice, soft as the rustle 
of an angel's wing, whisper close to them : — 

44 Good-bye 5 1 ndidr- father and mother; 
good-bj^^iTY of MICHIGAN 

The Biggest Newspaper 
"Spoor on Record. 



Last month "Carlton/' the famous comic conjurer, told how he succeeded in hoaxing newspaper 
editors and the public all over the world by pretending that he was able, by means of telepathic agency, 
to find his way blindfolded about strange cities, and retrieve any small article previously hidden by 
the person who undertook to "guide" him mentally. In the following article he tells, for the first 
time, how the trick was performed, thereby lifting the veil from a mystery that has puzzled completely 
not only ordinary individuals, but professional conjurers and ' ' magicians, ' ' and these of the highest 

standing, both in England and in the Orient. 

HE real root secret of the trick, 
or rather series of tricks, de- 
scribed in the previous article, 
may be summed up in four 
words — muscular training and 

Not the ordinary muscular 
training of the gymnasiums, however, be it 
noted ; but muscular training developed along 
novel and unsuspected lines. 

I have always been fond of experimenting 
in these directions, with the result that I have, 
in the course of years, achieved what I think 
I may fairly describe as some rather startling 
results. I can, for example, increase or 
decrease my height at will by expanding or 
contracting the muscles of my legs, thighs, 
chest, and abdomen. I have taught myself 
also to move my ears backwards and forwards, 
a feat performed constantly and naturally by 
all the lower animals, but the practice of 
which, as regards man, has become dormant 
owing to long disuse. 

The particular set of muscles I used in my 
blindfold experiments were those in front of 
the forehead, and which ordinarily come into 
play whenever the eyes are shut or opened. 
These are quite unusually powerful in their 
action, as the reader can test for himself if he 
will take the trouble to close his eyes, cover 
them tightly with the palm of his left hand, 
and then suddenly open them wide to their 
fullest extent. He will find that the whole 
lower portion of the skin of the forehead is 
pushed up under his hand by the expansion of 
the frontal muscles, no matter how tightly he 
presses against it. 

Now it is, of course, well known that as a 
result of long or repeated use all muscles in- 
crease in size, and consequently in strength, 

through the formation of new fibre. Taking 
advantage of this fact, I set to work to train 
and develop my frontal muscles, in much the 
same way as the professional boxer, say, trains 
and develops his biceps, or the runner his leg 

I spent an hour or more every day for many 
months on end practising shutting and open- 
ing my eyes, rolling them from side to side, 
moving the scalp up and down, and so on. 
The result was that I was able presently to so 
contract and expand the muscles of my fore- 
head and to move the skin up and down in 
such a way that, no matter how closely my 
eyes were bound, I could relax the bandage or 
change its position up or down in relation to 
my sight, and this, of course, without touching 
it in any way with my hands. 

Nor was it possible for anyone to detect 
the change, for not only was it quite slight — 
although always sufficient for my purpose — 
but if anyone wanted to examine the bandage 
while the test was in progress, as indeed fre- 
quently happened, I had only to close my eyes, 
throw back my head, and at the same time 
relax my frontal muscles, when the bandage 
would at once fall info its proper position, 
and even the most critical examiner would 
be fain to confess that in his opinion the 
wearer of it — that is to say myself — could 
not possibly see anything whatever, either 
through it, over it, or under it. 

Thus much as regards the training prelimi- 
nary to the trick. The intelligent reader will 
no doubt be struck by the fact that in its 
inception it bears a certain sort of analogy 
to that first practised by the Davenport 
Brothers in their rope trick, and since con- 
stantly copied. Tho Davenports and their 
imitators all^^^l^jto be tightly 



bound ^bout the body, arms, and legs with 
ropes, while their muscles were purposely kept 
by them in a state of extreme tension, and 
then when lights were lowered they were able 
to free themselves from their bonds by mus- 
cular contraction. Substitute " bandage" for 
" ropes/' and it will be apparent that I worked 
my blindfold trick on similar lines. 

" But/' exclaims the reader, " this does not 
explain how you found articles previously 
hidden in places unknown to you, and in 
localities miles away from your starting-point. 
Even if you were able to loosen your bandage 
at will in such a way as to permit of your 
peeping under it, that would not help you 
greatly in this respect, seeing that you 
had to find your way unaided, and, accord- 
ing to your theory, unguided, through the 
maze of streets and thoroughfares of a 
strange city." 

Wait a minute, I am coming to that. But 
first Jet me say something about the pre- 
liminary test which I always insisted on under- 
going at the office of the particular newspaper 
I had selected to spoof. This, it will be re- 
membered, consisted in my walking along a 
chalk line that had been drawn by a member 
of the staff from the centre of the floor in the 
editorial sanctum to some distant point on 
the premises. This line, which was, of course, 
started and completed after I had been — so 
the onlookers were convinced — securely blind- 
folded, was carried at my instigation all over 
the place in a series of zigzags and curves, in 
and out and across, up stairs and down, so 
that it not infrequently resembled very closely 
the ground pattern of some new and abnor- 
mally intricate species of maze. 

The man who drew the chalk line would 
then, as explained in my previous article, hide 
some small item near the end of the line, 
and then, following behind me at a distance 
of three or four paces, he would " w r ill " me 
to go forward along the line, following all its 
twistings and turnings, until I had reached 
the end of it and retrieved the hidden article. 
My great aim and object in carrying out these 
tests was to impress upon this individual that 
it was he who was really doing the finding 
through me, that i was only the medium, so 
to speak, and that it was his will-power alone 
that set me in motion and directed me which 
way to go. 

In order to encourage this delusion I used 
to tell him beforehand to draw crosses here and 
there along the line, explaining that, if he 
succeeded in exercising sufficient will-power, 
I would stop at each cross as I came to 
it. This invariably greatly impressed the 

beholders, and added considerably to their 

The reader will now be able to form a fairly 
clear idea of how this particular trick was 
worked, bearing in mind my previous explana- 
tion as regards the bandaging, and the con- 
traction and expansion at will of the arti- 
ficially-developed frontal muscles. I forgot 
to say that in addition to the bandage, folded 
in many thicknesses, I used to insist, as an 
extra precaution, on my eyes being covered 
with pads of cotton-wool. This, however, 
made no difference. Nature has fortunately 
endowed me with a fairly prominent nose, and 
by expanding the bandage and pads, and shift- 
ing their position ever so slightly by muscular 
effort in the manner already described, I was 
easily able to see down each side of it. 

True, the range of vision so obtained was 
extremely limited. I could see no more than 
a few inches immediately in front of me. 
But the chalk line was there. I had only to 
keep along it, stop at the various cross marks, 
and, when I came to the end of it, grope about 
for the hidden article until I found it — no 
very difficult task. In fact, it was no more 
than a case of following my nose, literally as 
well as metaphorically. 

Of course, there was a good deal of play- 
acting about the performance. I had to 
grope and stumble about, for instance, exactly 
as a blindfolded man would ; and yet I had 
to be very careful not to overdo the part, for 
the great thing, of course, was to avoid rousing 
the slightest suspicion in the minds of the 
onlookers. As a matter of fact, I am quite 
convinced that none of them at any time har- 
boured any such suspicions. The elaborately 
tight bandaging, the plugging of the eyes with 
pads of cotton-wool pressed well down into 
the sockets, was sufficient to convince the 
most sceptical. And, of course, they were 
quite right in assuming that I could not see 
at the time when they were examining me. 
It was afterwards, when the frontal muscular 
expansion came into play, and I made ready 
to start on my quest, that the element of sight 
came into operation. 

This preliminary test, with the chalk line 
to guide me, was, however, a comparatively 
simple matter. It was far otherwise when it 
came to working the trick in the open streets, 
without any line, or in fact guidance of any 
sort, save that which was supposed to come 
from the man walking behind me, who, how- 
ever, was forbidden to speak to me, and who, 
of course, was not in personal contact with 
me in any shape or form. 

During the months in which I was engaged 

4 6 


in working the trick out in my own mind, 
and in experimenting privately as regards 
the best way of successfully concluding the 
task I had set myself, I found that the only 
moving objects that were at all likely to come 
within the extremely limited range of vision 
allowed me when i( blindfolded" were — hoots. 
Forthwith I became an enthusiastic and 
critical student of boots of all kinds, Not 
new boots as exhibited in the shop windows, 
be it understood ; but worn boots— boots on 
people's feet* I practised my powers of 
observation on men I met, training my memory 
in this one direction until I was able mentally 
to visualize, so to speak, any pair of boots I 
had once seem I could see in my minds 
eye every crease, each tiny protuberance. 
Sherlock Holmes himself would simply not 
have been in it with me in this particular 
branch of detective science. T learnt 
to recognize and know men bv their 



boots, and by their boots alone. It was a 
most fascinating study, once I had warmed to 
my subject, and fraught with infinite pos- 
sibilities, Some day 1 shall publish a mono- 
Graph on k * The Influence of Character on 

Exactly how this laboriously acquired know- 
ledge helped me in my quest for hidden trea- 

sure the reader shall now learn ; and I will 
take as an illustration the test imposed upon 
me at Oakland, Calif or ma, where two hundred 
and fifty dollars in gold was actually hidden. 
The reader will please imagine mc at the office 
of the Tribune newspaper of that city. Out- 
side in the street is an immense throng of 
curious people, for the affair lias been well 
boomed beforehand- I am introduced to the 
person who is to ll guide "me, and who alone 
of all those present knows where the treasure 
is hidden — in this case, Mr. A. A. Denison, of 
the Oakland Chamber of Commerce, 

Prior to being blindfolded by the committee 
of prominent citizens appointed for the pur- 
pose, I am introduced to this gentleman, and 
we shake hands. Meanwhile I take stock of 
his boots, while addressing him in some such 
terms as these : " You will please understand, 
Mr. Denison, that my failure or 
success to-day in the task I have 
undertaken rests with you^ and 
with you alone. You are the 
active agent ; I am 
merely the passive 
one. In effect it 
is you who are 
going to find this 
treasure, not I , 
You must exert 
all the strength of 
your will-power to 
guide mc aright. 
If you do this, I 
cannot possibly 
fail ; if you fail 
to do it, I cannot 
succeed, Walk 
behind me, and 
will mc along the 
right path. If lam 
going in the right 
direction, mentally 
boost me ahead. 
If I am going 
wrong, stop your- 
self, and mentally 
tell mc to stop 
also. This is all 
I ask — that you 
shall not will 
me along the wrong road," 

All this, of course, is the biggest bunkum 
imaginable. But it impresses my auditors. 
And especially it impresses Mr. Denison. 
Meanwhile , I am still studying his boots. 

Well, I am bandaged to the satisfaction of 
the committee, who om and all examine me 
k ttWEI^OWHCHHtff suggestions, 




calculated, so they imagine, to further the 
completeness of the blindfolding business: a 
little more cotton-wool here, a tightening of the 
bandage there, and so on. When all is finished 
a prominent member of the committee of 
investigation solemnly and emphatically pro- 
nounces his opinion as follows: '* Gentlemen, 
if Carlton can see through that bandage 
and those pads, he must have the eyes of a 

Precisely what kind of an animal a cata- 
mount is, 1 clo not know., but I am quite pre- 
pared to believe that it possesses abnormally 
keen eyesight. Anyway, everybody appears 
quite 'satisfied, and 1 'step forth from the 
building, groping and stumbling as a blind 
man would. The bugles blare, the crowd 
gives a mighty cheer, and the quest begins. I 
circle round like a hound casting for a scent } 

only that my movements, of course, are 
slower. I know that in the beginning 1 must 
either go one way or the other ; up the street 
or down, to the right or to the left. 

Groping this way and that, with my hands 
outstretched, but my eyes carefully directed 
downwards, I am able presently to bring the 
boots of my ir guide " within my very limited 
range of vision. Naturally, the toes are 
pointing in the direction he is mentally willing 
me to go. So off 1 start in that direction, 
after a little more groping and circling, done 
now for effect, and not of any set purpose. 

Now, I have previously taken care to make 
myself thoroughly acquainted with the topog 
raphy of the city generally, and more especi- 
ally with that of the streets in the immediate 
vicinity of the newspaper office from which 1 

4 8 


is secreted somewhere at a point approxi- 
mately not less than a mile, and not more than 
two miles, from the starting-point, for this 
was the arrangement made in advance. So 
the reader will see that I have a certain amount 
of data to go upon. 

There is, of course, always the kerb to guide 
me, and in the main thoroughfares there are 
the tram-lines. I could, therefore, walk in a 
perfectly straight line as far as the first 
turning. But this, naturally, I do not do. 
Instead, I zigzag from one side to the other, 
blunder into pedestrians, finger my way along 
shop-fronts and area-railings, and so on. 

By and by I come to a side street. I may 
have to turn down it, or I may not. In order 
to find out, I have to grope and circle in such 
a way as to be able to bring within my view 
the boots of the " guide " who is following me. 
A single glimpse suffices. But often I pre- 
tend to be at fault. 

" You are not exerting sufficient will- 
power," I tell him. " Please, sir, do your 
utmost to guide me aright. Will me along 
the way I am to go, please. I cannot go right 
without your help." And so on and so forth ! 
It is all the veriest humbug, of course ; but 
I have yet to come across the man whom 
it does not impress. 

In this manner I progress along the route, 
and at each turning, or doubtful corner, the 
pantomime set forth above is repeated. But 
never in quite the same way, or some among 
the onlookers might get suspicions, and this 
is the one thing I have to avoid at all hazards. 
Everything has to be done naturally ; every 
movement must be executed exactly as a blind 
man might be expected to execute it. It is 
not an easy matter. One has to be a good 
actor. Supposing, for example, I came upon 
an open grating, or a hole in the road. It 
would never do to avoid these too markedly. 
In the case of the grating I " feel " it with one 
foot, pretending to try and gauge its depth 
and extent, before circling round it. As 
regards the hole, if it is not too deep, I may 
allow myself the luxury of falling into it. 
It must, of course, be done carefully, and there 
is even then a certain element of risk, but 
it adds immensely to the realism of the 

In this way, circling, groping, stumbling, 
but every minute drawing nearer and nearer 
to my objective, I progress along my way, 
and in time 1 am able to locate the hiding- 
place of the object I am in search of. Never 
once have I failed. 

There have been some curious mischances, 
though. One of the queerest of these 

unrehearsed incidents occurred at Halifax, in 
connection with a test organized at my instiga- 
tion by the editor and staff of the Guardian. 
The object I was in search of had been hidden 
under &, bridge, over which the road I had to 
traverse was carried. On reaching the crown 
of the bridge, I knew, owing to my boot-read- 
ing tactics, that the hiding-place was some- 
where beneath it ; so I pretended to climb 
over the parapet, knowing, of course, that I 
should be prevented from doing so, for this 
would have meant a sheer drop of twenty feet 
or so. 

On being pulled back, and warned of the 
danger I was supposed to be unconsciously 
running, I went round another way /and under 
the bridge. Here I located in my usual manner 
the exact spot where the object was supposed 
to be hidden, but, greatly to my chagrin and 
disappointment, I could not find it. For 
fully twenty minutes I fumbled round un- 
availingly. Then the man who was 4t guid- 
ing" me approached, and after himself 
fumbling about for awhile, he exclaimed : 
" Mr. Carlton, I am awfully sorry, but it's 

This proved to be the fact. Somebody had 
discovered the object, and removed it for safe 
keeping, and it was returned to the Guardian 
office the next day. On this occasion I may 
be said in a sense to have failed, in that I 
did not find the article. But as the reason 
I did not find it was because it was not there, 
my reputation naturally did not suffer on that 
account. In fact it was rather enhanced, for 
everybody recognized that I had correctly 
located the place where by rights it ought 
to have been. 

Another time, at Leeds, the crowds were so 
great that the whole tram-car service of the 
city was threatened with disorganization, 
and the police stepped in and stopped the 
performance. This was one of my most trying 
experiences, for the crowd was a somewhat 
rough one, and some of the people were in a 
rather ugly mood, believing the whole affair 
to have been a put-up job. However, I 
made them a speech, and soon got them in 
good humour. 

One of my roughest experiences was at 
Bradford, where the object of my quest was a 
silver medallion, or badge, the property of the 
chairman of the Bradford Cinderella Club. 
The crowds were immense, and to add 
to my difficulties the medallion had been 
" hidden " by being actually buried in the 
ground on a waste plot of land now occupied 
bv the Alhambra Theatre there. However, 
after gj^ing arnogg Jfy^ rubble and 




a — 


[4 * 4 - 


suuuk ^fl 

THE*5U«E 1 



- r ' 




** 3 


dfbris for a while I found it all right. " Then " 
— to quote the local report — " a cheer went 
up from several thousand throats as Carlton 
stood aloft with the silver badge in his hand. 
For our part we have to congratulate Carlton 
upon the feat, which we can testify was per- 
formed in a genuine manner and without any 
possible chance of collusion," 

At Bristol there happened a curious inci- 
dent, referred to in the account of the affair 
published in the Bristol Timts and Mirror, 
and reproduced in last month's article. The 
bandage became loose, and slipped down in 
such a manner as made it impossible for me 
to see under it ; nor was I able, try as I would, 
to get it back in its proper position by working 
my frontal muscles in the ordinary way. In 
this dilemma I was compelled to resort to a 
pretty little piece of play-acting, I pretended 
to blunder into a wall, bumping my head 
somewhat severely, and incidentally loosen- 
ing the bandage — of course, on purpose — 
so that it slipped completely down, This 
necessitated my being rebandaged, and this 
time, you may be sure, I took care to have it 
tight enough. 

In conclusion, I should like to emphasize 
the fact that no one has up till now had any 
inkling of the manner in which I succeeded 
in arcomplishing what, on the face of it and 
until the mystery is explained , strikes the 
vast majority of people as being a wholly 
inexplicable feat. Literally thousands of 

VoL IL-e, 

by Google 

letters have appeared in the Press professing 
to elucidate the way in which I worked it, 
but in no single instance were the writers 
anywhere near the correct solution. 

Nevertheless, some of the suggestions put 
forward were exceedingly ingenious, and such 
as I should certainly never have thought 
of on my own accord. At Oakland, foi in- 
stance, where buglers were employed (without 
consulting me) to advertise the show, quite a 
number of people advanced the theory that 
I was guided to the left or right, forward or 
backward, as the case might be, by the notes 
they emitted from time to time in the course 
of my progress through the streets. 

Another theory that found favour with 
quite a number of people in various parts of 
the world was that I was connected with my 
" guide ,T by means of "invisible" wires; 
although how wires were to be made invisible 
nobody took the trouble to explain. 

After one of my performances in Egypt — 
where, by the way, I nearly got knifed through 
pretending to blunder into and embrace an 
Arab woman in the course of my ** blindfold 7? 
peregrinations — a grave and dignified old 
Sheikh explained to the public, with much 
volubility, that the feat was really a quite 
childishly simple one. Walking in front of 
me, he opined, was a confederate, strongly 
scented with a special perfume, and I simply 
" followed the scent," much as if I were some 
species of two-legged hound. 

Original from 

The End of Judas. 


Illustrated by Graham Simmons. 

LICK ! clack ! click ! . . . 
Click ! . . . clack ! " A 
strange sound, one thought, 
to be heard at dead of 
night ! 

It did not need much 
to rouse the curiosity of 
the few loafers on their way home from the 
little cabaret in the little village of Boissy- 
sur-Lorgne, on an out-of-the-way frontier of 
France. Since the first great wave of war 
had rolled by, some eight or nine months ago, 
little had happened to disturb the stagnant 
tranquillity of the place. 

The unmistakable sound of a pickaxe, in 
contact with stone or some equally hard 
material, promised to the three or four simple 
villagers, scarcely warmed with the acid wine 
of the country, something like a new 

"Click! clack! click!" 

Guided by the sound they left the main 
street, crossed a field, and leaned over the gate 
that led into a little courtyard fronting the 
lonely manse, a farmhouse built on to the 
small remains of a fourteenth-century chateau. 
They had approached unseen, unheard ; and 
there, in the moonlight, stood the object of 
their curiosity revealed. 

The stonemason nudged the vintner, and 
the vintner pressed the arm of the wheel- 

Here, indeed, was something queer that 
demanded all their combined intelligence to 
explain it. 

In the full moonshine an unkempt figure 
stood and swung a pick — not with violence, 
but rather as if he would fain have made no 
noise at all — a thing impossible ! — against 
the bare wall of the house. Then, suddenly, 
an accidental turn of the head rendered his ( 
features visible, and two of the spectators 
had at once to stifle the same exclamation. 

11 Bon Dieu ! It is Judas Mahiot ! " 

The third— a recent arrival in the village 
— drew them aside, behind the shelter of the 
hedge. " Judas Mahiot ! who is he ? " 

Who, indeed ? No other inhabitant could 
have asked the question. Who was Judas 
Mahiot ? The greed v ne'er-do-weel, the cruel 

Digitized by tjOOglC 

and cowardly son-in-law of the good old 
Jean Bonnet, who had dwelt in that very 
house — in a word, the dastardly villain who 
had betrayed Boissy, betrayed France herself 
— so the simple country-folk believed — to her 
barbarous enemies ? 

Was not his the name that boys of adjoining 
villages flung at those of Boissy in their 
bitterest quarrels ? Was it not, among 
grown-up rivals wrangling in the wine-shop, 
the word that had more than once preceded 
a savage blow or a knife-stab ? 

And here was the man himself, sneaking 
into the place where he dared not show his 
face by day-time — traitor, murderer, and 
now, as it seemed, housebreaker to boot ! 
All that was known of his infamous history 
could be whispered in a few moments, while 
the sound of the pickaxe ceased, and the 
watchers, fearful of having, as it were, 
frightened away their quarry, drew back 
into the dark shadows. 

Mahiot, the red-haired reprobate, had 
never, it was believed, done a stroke of 
honest work. He had married young Lucie 
— cajoled the girl into marrying him — for the 
sake of her old father's reputed savings. 

Then, as these were not forthcoming — did 
not all the world know the horrible story ? 
He had betrayed the village, the French 
regiment that held the wooded heights above 
the plain where the Lorgne winds along 
(entangled with the line of poplars and the 
white high road leading to Boissy-le-Grand), 
had sold France herself — a murrain on him ! 
— for the gold of the accursed German 
Spoiler ! How ? Oh, was it not a simple 
enough matter, when one knew ? Had not 
the story been told in the past year a 
hundred, a good thousand times ? 

" Look you ! J? — thus had scores of narra- 
tors sketched the scene on tavern tables with 
wine-stains, burnt cork, or morsels of brown 

Here lay the village nestling under the 
hill all covered with fir wood. Here, at the 
upper end, stood the old manse, with its 
new stonework patched on to its ancient 
masonry. All the hill-top was held — was it 
not? of course— rhy our good soldiers, in 




detached bodies, with wire entanglements — 
a thick-set hedge of them. These heights, 
so steep to ascend, were reckoned secure. 
Over there, on the side away from the river, 
lay the German outposts. 

None thought of another way into the 
valley. It would seem, indeed, that none 
knew, none but old Bonnet, and Judas. 
But at the back of the farmyard, in the 
depths of a disused chalk-pit, was a long 
cavern, a natural passage that led out on 
the far side, in a hollow hidden by thick 
scrub at the foot of the hill. 

And the German commandant, who lay en- 
camped scarce two miles away, wanted a guide. 

That was fill. 

Dreadfut things passed, it was said, when 
Mahiot first spoke to the old man of his 

" 1 have no money," he said. " You have 
money, but you keep it to yourself. Good. 
Very good ! But there is money, bags of 
gold — to be earned close by, only by telling 
what I know. Treachery ! Bah ! We are 
beaten already, I tell you. Our miserable 
soldiers are doomed in advance. I sell but 
a part of what is sold already. .The Prussians 
will but be so much the poorer. Voila tout / M 

At shorter length than this was the story 
whispered behind the hedge — all that was 
known of it. 

No. There was no evidence that the 
wretch had killed Jean Bonnet — not with 
his hands. But the old man died only a few 
weeks later, of the shock — que voulez-vous ? — 
or of the shame of it. 

The good old Jean Bonnet ! Had not 
his father served Napoleon ? Had he not 
heard his stories of Jena and Austerlitz ? 
And now to be locked into a room in his 
own, in that fathers own house, while a 
^treacherous villain of a son-in-law sold 
1 France to the Prussian ! Was not that 
enough to make a good patriot die weeping 
tears of rage ? 

Such was Judas Mahiot, the man they 

No. The rascal was not gone. He was 
only slinking round the house, looking, 
looking — for what ? 

The " Click ! clack ! " came from a different 
quarter. He was still at work. 

So much of the story was certain and well 
known. All the village remembered the 
fatal surprise, the battle — the rout, rather— 
that followed. The mason was not likely to 
forget it, for had he not gone round the next 
two days, after the tide of battle had rolled 

away, repairing its ravages in many a little 
homestead ? My faith ! There were too many 
for him to attend to ; and he recollected 
well how to old Jean Bonnet at the manse, 
as to some others, at that busy time, he had 
sold bits of stone and mortar for the repair 
of their houses. The good old fellow — fancy 
that ! — had set to work patching at his 
damaged wall ; just that bare side you had 
seen in the moonlight. 

" Click ! clack ! " It sounded from the 
farther side this time, and stopped again. 
Yes, the vintner well remembered the veteran 
blue-coated M. Boilnet as he stood on that 
particular sunny morning, ajookL fragments 
of shell, broken fence - rails, and o\\\&x 
wreckage. One had watched him pick up 
the curved black shards of these deadly 
missiles, clearing the strange ruins from his 

By some freak of the cannon-ball a single 
good-sized stone had been cleanly dislodged 
from the ancient masonry. But before 
nightfall that scar-like hole had been tidily 
filled in again. Since that day, they said, 
the old man had scarcely been himself ; and 
it was but shortly after that he took to his 
bed and was seen no more but by the hapless 
daughter in whose arms he died. Of Judas 
he never spoke but with curses, aye, and 
vague threats of revenge. 

The treasure ? No one knew what had 
become of that. Gossips said it had been 
locked up in a black box and hidden — buried 
— somewhere soon after the betrayal and the 

14 Click ! clack!" There was the sound 
again, and again it ceased. What could the 
man be looking for ? The three stepped 
back to a break in the hedge where, them- 
selves invisible, they could see all. 

The full harvest moon poured a flood of 
light on the wall that showed up every 
indenture in the rough masonry. The eye, 
the right hand of Judas, wandered fretfully 
along the irregular surface, while his left 
trailed the pickaxe. He glanced up at the 
sky, and murmured an impatient oath. He 
had seen nothing, heard nothing of the 
watchers. Yet he feared to be disturbed. 
He wished to have done with the business, 
one could see that. It should have been 
finished ere now. 

Had not his wife told him, confessed at 
last — he cursed her again — that the old 
man's hoard of gold was hidden here ? 

And whv had she refused, hesitated so 
long to tell him — name of a hundred devils ! — 
why had she pretaided to fear the disclosure 




for him, till at last he had broken clown all 
hesitation by threats of violence, nut to her, 
but to their child— the child, he said, for 
whom she would have kept the old cur- 
mudgeon^ savings. 

Then all her hesitation, fear — or was it 
pity ? — seemed to vanish. He woke from 
his savage reverie with a start. Why, here, 
here— he gasped with excitement— was the 
very place. His right hand dropped to the 
handle of the pick. He clutched and raised 
it. Here were the marks, clear as if made 
only yesterday— how had he missed them 
before ?— of the old fools trowel. No. 
She had not deceived him, for all her guilty, 
frightened looks at the last* 

11 Click! clack! click S 1 ' 

At the first blow he was certain of it. At 
the second and third the new mortar fell in 
flakes and slithers at his feet, He struck 
again. All was right now, but it was getting 
late, Someone might come. 

True, the house was his wife's, and no one 
lived there for the time, but the strokes, 
somehow, roused uncanny echoes. And the 
villagers might mob him. 

The flooding moonlight from behind poured 

into the fissure he had made or reopened, 
as if the orb itself were focused on this one 
spot, trying to pierce it. And lo ! already 
there was to be seen something dark, smooth, 
metal-like. At last ! Judas struck once 
and' missed it. The shadow of the swinging 
pick seemed to mislead his eye. He raised 
it again. At last ! At last ! There was a 
bellowing report, a clatter of breaking glass, 
and a wild scream all down the village street. 
A thunderous roar re-echoed from the chalk 
hills, a great crimson flower of flame 
suddenly blossomed forth from the white 
and glistening wall, with a clattering dis- 
charge of shards of iron, stone, rubble, and — 
something ehr 7 something not easy to find nor 
identify 3 even by next morning's light. 

" What is it ? " shrieked a score of voices, 
as men, women, and terrified children rushed 
out, scantily clad, into the summer night. 
' Was it the 'Great Day/ or the cursed 
Prussians come back again ? " 

Rrrnie and palsied with terror, the few 
spectators gathered themselves up— -one wip- 
ing the blood from a flesh wound — to tell 
of what they had seen and heard. It was a 
simple stQ^ji] i rTHtf ft$mbi ttered f maddened 





">ld man had not deceived his son-in-law, 
Saie in the centre of the massive wall lay 
the long-coveted box of treasure, the heritage 
of the terrified wife and the pale, screaming 
child now relieved from the worst terror of 
their lives. 

by Google 

Only— in front .of it he had built into the 
masonry -why not ? — one little memento 
of the war, of the betrayal — an ntuxjAoded 
German skrlL That was alb It had served 
its purpose, and Judas, like that other we 
wot of j had " gone to his own place." 
Original from 



How Leading Revue Composers Write Their Melodies. 

With a very large section of the public "the music of the moment " is 
undoubtedly the music of Revue, which, for the time being, is all the rage 
with theatre-goers, not only in London and the Provinces, but even in our 
Colonies, to which far-away lands many touring Revue companies are now 
paying a visit. How is Revue music written ? How do Revue Composers get 
their inspirations? What is the secret of success in the composing of music 
for Revue? The subject is one of. such obvious interest that a number 
of leading composers have contributed their views on this subject, 
exclusively for "The Strand Magazine/' * 


Composer of countless successful musical shows and revues, including those two outstanding 

"hits" at the Palace Theatre, "The Passing Show" and u Bric-a-Brac." To tfcft man in the 

street Mr Finck's name will always be familiar as that of the Author of " fa* the Shadows " 

and "Gilbert the Filbert," sung by Mr. Basil Hallam. 

IN some form or other I think that the 
revue, as we have come to know it in 
England, will stay with us for a very 
long time. I scarcely think, however, 
that the vogue of ragtime will enjoy a 
much longer life over here. And, after all, 
why should it ? Ragtime is essentially a 
product of America. But America has had 
enough of it and has, figuratively speaking, 
given it the " order of the boot." 

What has been the result ? Simply this, 
that with that hospitality which we almost 
invariably show to strangers to our shores, 
we have welcomed ragtime with such fervid 
enthusiasm and have ft ted it so generously 
that many of our revue composers seem to 
think it necessary to imitate this American 
ragtime, thus losing their own individuality 
and, by the same token, assisting the English 
re voi e to also lose its " personality." 

Surely we have a sufficient number of 
talented authors and composers in this 
country to provide us with a characteristic 
English revue and not a by-product which 
has already had its day in America ? 

Perhaps I may be allowed to say that I 
think that the consistent success of revues 
at the Palace Theatre may not improbably 
be more than a little due to the fact that the 
Palace shows have ever preserved their own 
particular individuality and have also striven 

Digitized by LiOOQ IC 

to retain their personality. In a very recent 
show there, for example, there was only one 
ragtime number, and that was a spoof rag- 
time number written by myself. Happily, 
however, " spoof " though it was intended to 
be, it impressed that talented artiste, Miss 
Elsie Janis, as bearing the hall-mark of 
American ragtime, for when I asked her one 
day where she thought we had picked it up 
she said, " From America, of course." Yes, 
in that show there was only one " spoof " 
ragtime number, and yet it played to crowded 
houses for many months. 

Of individual successful numbers which I 
have written, and which, I am proud to 
think, have enjoyed considerable success, 
perhaps the best known are " In the Shadows " 
and " Gilbert the Filbert." The former, 
strangely enough, I wrote at the end of a 
very long, tiring day. I had been at the 
Palace all the afternoon and evening, and 
felt literally " dead beat " when I got home 
shortly after midnight. 

Before turning in, however, I remembered 
that I had still to write an additional number 
for a piece I had contracted to do. I felt I 
should sleep better if I could go to bed with 
a clear conscience and knowing that the 
piece was actually finished. So I sat down 
to do it there and then, and, in almost less 
time than it tak?^|fl$ffi§ write the words, " In 




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the Shadows M peeped 
out from somewhere 
and , shortly after- 
wards, seemed to 
follow me about 
wherever I went, 

u Gilbert the Filbert" I wrote one Sunday 
afternoon. Arthur Wimperis had sent me 
on the lyrics. And, well, that s till there is 
to it, I read the words over two or three 
times, sat straight down at the piano, and 
composed the melody there and then. It is, 
I would mention, of great assistance to a 
composer to collaborate with an author so 

understanding and sympathetic as Arthur 
Wimperis, to whose words I have written quite 
a lot of music — and hope to write lots more, 
Writing of the Ll gentle art ,1 of making 
melodies, I would add that I always orches- 
trate my own music, and, if I may he allowed 
to say so, I think that it is a great help to 
the eventual results of his work for a composer 
to do his own orchestration. It preserves 
and keeps alive the theme of the melody as it 
first occurred to him in a manner which — 
rightly or wrongly, it is my idea, anyway— 
can never be carried out so successfully when 
the orchestration is left to others 


The popular composer of many successful revues, including those famous attractions at the 
Ambassador* Theatre, " More " and " Odd* and End*," and 4i All Scotch " at the Apollo Theatre* 

A famous author once told me that he 
often wondered how on earth he ever wrote 
a book. fct Quite frequently I sit down at my 
desk without ? as it seems to me, a single idea 
in my head," he said, M and yet, pen in hand, 
and foolscap before me, I feel so ashamed of 
being barren of ideas that my shame literally 
seems to inspire me ; anyway, ideas, good, 
bad, or indifferent, emerge from the shadows 
and peep out through the top of the inkpot — 
and in due course the manuscript of the new 
book finds its way to my publishers." 

I ran thoroughly sympathize with that 
author, for, on occasions, I have thought 
that I have been suffering from the same 
complaint. And yet the mere fact that my 
conscience tells me that it is up to me to 
compose music which I hope will not entirely 
offend the ear of the public has, happily, 
enabled me to do the best I can. 

Ikit exactly why and how melodies come 
to one I could not for the life of me tell you. 
They just come — and that's all there is about 
it, For instance, a number I wrote recently 
entitled ■' Knitting/' which scored quite a 

Digitized by Gt 

popular success in Harry Grattans clever 
revue (C All Scotch " at the Apollo Theatre, 
came to me of a sudden in a most unusual 
manner, and at quite an unexpected moment. 

Business had taken me down to Margate 
one day, and on my return journey I found 
myself in a carriage with tw r o ladies who 
were passing the time in knitting comforters 
for soldiers in the trenches— and elsewhere. 
The click, click, click of the needles plus the 
effects of a few hours of the invigorating air 
of Margate, and the snorting of a particularly 
offensive engine, which, to judge by the pace 
it travelled, must have been suffering from 
rheumatism or some other agent which 
induces slowness, acted as a lullaby, and 
before we reached Heme Bay I was safe in 
the arms of Morpheus, as a penny-a- liner 
novelist might perhaps express it. 

About half-w r ay to London I awoke with a 
start to find, as is not entirely unknown on 
this particular line, that the train had stopped 
for a short rest-cure. The needles of the 
busy ladies, however, were still clicking 
away as energetically as ever- And of a 
Original from 





sudden — goodness only knows why, how, or 
when it came ! — the melody of * l Knitting " 
seemed to blow in through the window and 
remained with me until 1 arrived home, 
when I transferred it to paper, thence to the 
Apollo Theatre, where it was delightfully 
sung by Miss Jean Aylwin to the accom- 
paniment of the knitting-needles of many 
charming ladies. 

" The Big Noise Number ?J which finishes 
the first act of *' More " at the Ambassadors 
Theatre, and which 1 have been told has 
proved some small popular success, came to 
me in almost an equally unexpected manner. 
1 was standing one day at the corner of 
Princes Street, in the City ? waiting for a taxi, 
shortly before one o'clock, when the traffic 
was at its busiest. Motor-bus hooters hooted 
on all sides, nervous ladies, finding themselves 
surrounded by drays, tarn, four-wheelers, 
hansoms j and other- conveyances, appealed 
to policemen to see them safely across the 
road, chauffeurs " chipped r1 each other 
merrily , and pandemonium seemed to pervade 
the air. And as the pandemonium pervade d, 
so the il Big Noise Number/' which you may 
perhaps have heard at the Ambassadors 
Theatre, -emerged therefrom and came to me 

for refuge, I at once transferred it— to the 
Ambassadors Theatre, 

May I add that I just work when the 
spirit of melody moves me. I have no 
regular working hours , for a lengthy experience 
of the making of melodies proves to me that 
they come just when they think they will 
come. To whistle for them, call for thenr^ 
beg for them, is of no avail. Melody is a 
wandering spirit, and wanders just when she 
thinks she will, Sometimes she is punctual, 
sometimes late ; but, happily, in my own 
case, I have never known her fail to turn up 
at alh 

Thanks to Mr. C. R. Cochran having given 
me the opportunity of writing icvue with 
Mr, Harry Grattan, who, in his lyrics, always 
conveys in lilting lines and phrases the 
humour of the situation, the composing for 
revue "has become quite a fascinating hobby 
with me, as there are so many kinds of music 
required for interpolation in this form of 
entertainment that one is continually writing 
[ * different kinds " of music, and thus, inci- 
dentally, continually having a holiday thrust 
upon one — whet lie r one wants it or not — for 
surely it is true beyond all manner of doubt 
that the best of all holidays is change of work. 


Mo it prolific of revue ^writers, who ha* compote d the music for no fewer than twenty -five 
revues, including those great *uc cesses, " Business as Usual," " Shell Out/* *' Push and 

Go," ** Rosy Rapture," and many others. 

I am touching wood as I write, for I 
realize that the fact that one may have 
been fortunate enough to write a number 
of songs for revues and other musical 
entertainments which have achieved per- 
haps more than their fair share of popu- 
larity is in no way a guarantee that one's 
successes may not, later on, be replaced by 

Digitized by v^QOKlC 

less cheering ** masterpieces '* of " music of 
the moment/' 

Still, I may modestly claim to have com- 
posed a number of songs which have *' made 
good " and have become immortalized on 
barrel - organs, by butcher - boys, street - 
venders, and in dm wing-rooms from Park 
Lane lo less f:\shiniirJilc districts. Perhaps 




the best known of these all the world 
over are " Sister Susie's Sewing Shirts for 
Soldiers ,J ; " Now, Are We All Here ? 
Yes t " ; rt When We've Wound Up the 
Watch on the .Rhine ,J ; and ** The Topical 
Acrostic/ 5 

41 Sister Susie" was written following a 
remark passed by a friend of mine during 
conversation that his wife was " sewing shirts 
for soldiers." I immediately saw the chance 
of the title for a song, and within an hour 
it was written. It proved a phenomenal 
success Irom the first night of production, 
which was twenty-four hours later, at the 
London Hippodrome, and later on it was 
sung with equal success all over the provinces 
by Miss Madge Temple. 

** The Topical Acrostic" suggested tsclf 
to Mr. Worton David and myself when wc 
were discussing the war, trying to find an 
idea to embody the Allies in a song. Mr. 
David left my flat that evening without our 
having struck an idea, but our minds worked 

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hard. If I never believed in thought trans- 
mission before, I am certainly convince I 
that such a commodity is in existence, 
because the next morning I was on the 
telephone to Mr. David to tell him that an 
idea had occurred to me, when he told mc 
that he was trying to get through to me to 
tell me that he had. struck an idea — the 
same idea as I had— namely, an Acrostic on 
the Allies* Needless to say we quickly 
completed it, and the song has since proved 
a very great success with Miss Lee White at 
the Alhambra, and in countless other revues 
and musical plays in most parts of the world 
where the ill- fame of the Central Powers is 
adequately " appreciated,*' 

Lt When We've Wound Up the Watch on 
the Rhine " was written by Mr. F, W, Mark 
and myself, and although it did not " go " 
with the swing we expected and hoped it 
would on the first night, it afterwards became 
the " hit " of " Business as Usual ? * at the 
Hippodrome, where for many months it was 
sung twice daily by the 
entire audience, Strangely 
■ enough, with this song, the 

: alteration in one line : nd 

the addition of a little 
" business " made all the 
difference between apparent 
failure and pronounced success. 
Writing of revues and bright 
entertainments reminds me 
that both before and after 
the war broke out I have 
heard niapy people say that 
they cannot understand 
why the public elect 
to patronize l( shows" 
of this light character 
in preference to more 
serious fare, Rightly or 
wrongly, my own impression 
is that at all times the public 
will lend their support to 
entertainments which help 
to make them forget, for the 
time being at any rate, the 
more serious side of life. In 
times, alas ! like the present, 
the need for aids to tem- 
porary forget fulness must be 
apparent to all. 

Like many composers, I 
have no regular hours for 
work, as ideas for songs hap- 
pen along at most unexpected 





ask the Goddess of Music in revue to 
inspire one " by the clock." Rather 
better is it, I think, to put up with her 

capricious ways, and welcome her when- 
ever she sees fit to pay a humble composer 
a visit. 


The brilliant young composer, and brother of Mr. Herman Darewski, who hu written the 

music for no fewer than nineteen revue* and musical shows, including " Now'* the Time 1 M 

" 5064 Gerrard," and many special numbers for Mile. Gaby Deslys, 

I have often been asked by enthusiastic 
composers- in- embryo if I could let them into 
the secret of composing ; in other words, if 
I could put them on the right road to the 
making of melodies whenever they happen 
to feel in the mood to compose music. 

Unfortunately , however, I have never 
been able to assist, for, to be quite frank, I 
don't think there arc any hard-and-fast rules 
to be observed. The melody just comes to 
one— one can't explain how or why, but t he re 
it is. Maybe some situation inspires one ; 
perhaps a glorious summer's day suggests 
a joyous refrain, or a dull^ wet afternoon a 
melody less cheerful, 

I once motored down to Brighton with a 
friend who had just purchased a new car. 

which only ray sense of humour prevented 
me from having published. 

This little incident may perhaps serve to 
show how one gets inspirations for melodies 
from little happenings going on around one. 

"The Night Hub Girl," which achieved 
considerable success in the second edition of 
u The Passing Show," I wrote in a taxi one 
afternoon when going to see Mr, Willy 
Redstone, which reminds me, by the way, 
that frequently if a melody crosses my mind 
and happens to make a great appeal to me I 
never trouble to jot it down on paper but 
carry it about with me in my head for weeks, 
and sometimes months. From a composer's 
point of view, if a tune strikes him as being 
really " good " it almost invariably remains 

" It is the cheapest thing on the market, but, 
I am told, absolutely reliable," he said, as 
we started. We reached Brighton in a 
little over eight hours, having broken down 
no fewer than five time en route. That car 
may have been listed as M cheap/ 1 but I 
can't help thinking it must have been dear 
at any price. Anyway, when 1 arrived 
home—by train, I may mention — I at once 
sat down and wrote l * A Hymn of Hate " 

with him for a long time ; on the other hand, 
if there is nothing in it, it probably goes out 
of his head at once. This, of course, is not 
necessarily an infallible rule, but as far as 
my own work is concerned, I have noticed 
that it has applied with almost uncanny 

Among recent successes of mine is " M argot 
Magee," now being sung by Miss Lee White 
at the Al ham bra. This melody, strangely 
enough, occurred to me in my tub one 
morning f in whi.h peculiarly fitting resting- 
place, UNWaBm(30r3Ml»€«teW4tt« many a 
u flowing " melody. 




Whd ha* composed the music for many popular revues and musical shows, including those 
well-known Alhambra successes, tl 8d. a Mile" *"5064 Gerrard" and "Now's the Time!" 

I am inclined to think that the two factors 
which spell success in writing the music for 
a revue are, firstly, that the music should 
be original, and, secondly^ that it should 
riirrv with it a compelling Swing without 
any ld twists and turns" in it, so to speak. 
In other words , a strong, simple swing which 
arrests the ear without taxing the memory 
too much. Perhaps the best example I 
could give of the style of music I am trying 
to describe is that world-wide popular 

in Egypt. Unconsciously the spirit of an 
Egyptian night seemed to embrace me with 
:l grip which held mc tight. And at that 
moment the music which I afterwards com- 
posed for the ballet entiled " The Spirit of 
Egypt " came to me and remained with me 
for days and weeks. 

I could picture- in my mind music which 
seemed to me to illustrate graphically the 
calm and quiet of an Egyptian night , and, 
little by little, I worked up the theme in the 

success, "The Merry Widow Waltz/* the air 
of which, while extremely tuneful, is yet 
" simple and unaffected," 

As regards my own methods of work, I 
have no time limitations, for melodies strike 
me at any time of the day. Thus, to cite 
the case of one of my greatest successes, 
" The Spirit of Egypt," in that musical 
timepiece in two hours and ten chimes, 
" Now's the Time ! " at the Alhambra, the 
motif of this music occurred to me one warm 
summers night when I was walking home 
through the Park. For a few minutes I 
stood on the bridge over the lake in St, 
James's Park and looked towards Bucking- 
ham Palace, which seemed to be wrapped in 

Everything was perfectly calm and peaceful. 
One could almost have heard a bird ruffle 
its feathers. And yet the still silence was of 
that almost oppressive, overbearing nature 
which one associates with a summer's night 

ballet which is now shown at the Alhambra, 
the entire music of which I wrote. 

One of my most successful numbers in 
revue is, I think, the finale in " 8d. a Mile," 
and I also wrote the music for the "Dandy 
Dance/* which, by the way, was one ' of the 
great successes of that most delightful 
dancer , Phyllis M on km an. 

It would be easy for me to tell readers 
of The Strand Magazine many stories o£ 
exactly how various melodies I have written 
for revues and opera bouffe have occurred 
to me, but I think perhaps the suggestion 
inspired by that calm night which impelled 
me to write * h< The Spirit of Egypt" best 
describes the strange manner in which a 
melody frequently comes to me — shyly, 
unhidden, and, more often than not, quite 

In conclusion, I should like to add that I 
think that the music which will always make 
the greatest appeal to the public in revues 
and musical " shows " of this character will 
be that which is direct and simple. " Com- 
plex " melodies have seldom — and I think 
will seldom — help to build up the success of 
what, after all, has been for many months 
pastLlfflif'BRi^ISr 6tF tiWiCifei fciiAd'tl t — re v u e . 



The composer of many sii^cesifut songs in revue and musical comedy, including ** YouVe 

Here and I'm Here/' which was sung with phenomenal success both at the Palace in "The 

Passing Show," and at the Ambassadors in "Odds and Ends" 

I am inclined to think that, as in the 
making of a successful play, so is it with the 
composing of music for revue and other 
musical shows — there is no royal road to 
make success a certain ty, although there are 
certain hard-and-fast rules to be borne in 
mind which , if carefully carried out, tend 

we are passing through now almost all of us 
seize the opportunity whenever possible of 
4( being taken out of oneself ?1 if only for a 
few hours. This fact, I think, in the main 
accounts for the present vogue of revue, 
for even its most virulent detractors would 
scarcely dare to say that the average revue 

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towards that aim. Thus, as far as the writing 
of popular music is concerned, n should be 
as tuneful as possible, with a ,+ musical 
plot/ : so to speak, running all the way 
through it, 

I am afraid, however, you may find the 
description " musical plot >7 a little difficult 
to follow. I think, therefore, I can best 
illustrate it by citing a song you may have 
heard ? entitled * l You Ye Here and I'm 
Here," If you will hum this over you will 
find that there is Si a plot " in the music 
from start to finish ; that is to say, it does 
not break off, but follows a theme through- 
out, which the ear of the audience can follow 
without effort. 

Involved music will never, I think, ' f catch 
on" with the average revue audience, 
which, after all, comes to hear cheerful music 
and hopes to be amused. In times such as 

It. lijLfv**bi: l'Jiulo. Chi tide Marrfc ; W,ll>- BfJstoiic : Phulo. 

is not bright— even if its brightness is of a 
kind which makes no appeal to them. 

By the wayj the music of " You're Here 
and I'm Here," which, if I may he allowed 
to say so 3 has achieved a considerable popular 
success, was started at ten o'clock on the 
stagt of the Lyceum Theatre in Rochester, 
New York, during rehearsal of the late Air. 
Charles Frohmans production of ,l The 
Laughing Husband/' Twenty minutes later 
the melody, scribbled on the back of a drum- 
part, was sent to Mr. Harry B. Smith, the 
author of the American version of the play 
at his hotel, and by eleven o" clock the com- 
pleted duet was being rehearsed under the 
direction of Mr, Edward Royce, of Daly's 
Theatre, London- 

The orchestration of l< You're Here and 
I'm Here ' I made at the nearest available 
piano. If memory serves correctly, it was 
in the empty grill-room of a neighbouring 
hotel. The matin' e performance had started 
before the band-parts were dry, so the duet 
was played as an entr'acte before the curtain 
rose on the second act. This, I may say, in 
lieu of a rehearsal. The same afternoon the 
number was sung in the second act, with 
great success, and has since been a featured 
hit in many revues and musical shows all 
the world ovQuiginal from 



Illustrated by Alfred Leete* 

i ; 

HE sprang it on me before 
break fust. There in seven 
words you have a complete 
character sketch of my Aunt 
Agatha. I could go on in- 
definitely about brutality and 
lack of consideration. I 
merely say that she routed me out of bed to 
listen to her painful story somewhere in the 
small hours. It cant have bten half- past 
eleven when Jeeves, my man, woke me out 
of the dreamless and broke the news:— 
11 Mrs. Gregson to see you, sir." 
1 thought she must be walking in her deep- 
but I crawled out of bed and got into a 
dressing-gown. I knew Aunt Agatha wrll 
enough to know that, if she had come to see 
me f she was going to see me. That's the sort 
of woman she is* 

She was sitting bolt upright in a chair, 
staring into space. When I tame in she looked 
at me in that darn critical way that always 
makes me feel as if I had gelatine where 
my spine ought to be. Aunt Agatha k one of 
those strong-minded women. 1 should think 
Queen Elizabeth must have been something 
like her- She bosses her husband, Spencer ' 
Gregson., a battered little chappie un the 

Stock Exchange. She bosses my cousin, 
Gussie Mannering-Phipps, She bosses her 
sister-in-law, Gussies mother, And, worst of 
all, she bosses me. She has an eye like a man- 
eating fish, and she has got moral suasion 
down to a fine point. 

I dare say there are fellows in the world- 
men of blood and iron, don't you know, and 
all that sort of tiling— whom she couldn't 
intimidate ; but if youYe a chappie like me^ 
fund of a quiet life, you simply curl into a ball 
when you sec her coming, and hope for the 
best. My experience is that when Aunt 
Agatha wants you to do a thing you do it, 
or else you find yourself wondering why those 
fellows in the olden days made such a fuss 
when they had trouble with the Spanish 

" Ihilluu. Aunt A-atha ! " I said. 

II Bertie/* she said, l( you look a sight. 
You look perfectly dissipated." 

I was feeling like a badly-wrapped brown- 
paper parcel. I'm never at my best in the 
early morning. I said so, 

* 4 Early morning ! I had breakfast three 
hours" ago. and li'ive been walking in the park 



should walk on the Embankment, trying to 
end it all in a watery grave. 

" I am extremely worried, Bertie. That is 
why I have come to you." 

And then I saw she was going to start 
something, and I bleated weakly to Jeeves to 
bring me tea. But she had begun before I 
could get it. 

" What are your immediate plans, Bertie ? " 

" Well, I rather thought of tottering out 
for a bite of lunch later on, and then possibly 
staggering round to the club, and after that, 
if I felt strong enough, I might trickle off 
to Walton Heath for a round of golf." 

"I am not interested in your totterings 
and tricklrags. I mean, have you any impor- 
tant engagements in the next week or so ? " 

I scented danger. 

" Rather," I said. " Heaps ! Millions ! 
Booked solid ! " 

" What are they ? " 

" I — er — well, I don't quite know." 

" I thought as much. You have no engage- 
ments. Very well, then, I want you to start 
immediately for America." 

" America ! " 

Do not lose sight of the fact that all this 
was taking place on an empty stomach, 
shortly after the rising of the lark. 

" Yes, America. I suppose even you have 
heard of America ? " 

" But why America ? " 

" Because that is where your Cousin Gussie 
is. He is in New York, and I can't get at 

" What's Gussie been doing ? " 

" Gussie is making a perfect idiot of him- 

To one who knew young Gussie as well as 
I did, the words opened up a wide field for 

" In what way ? " 

" He has lost his head over a creature." 

On past performances this rang true. Ever 
since he arrived at man's estate Gussie had 
been losing his head over creatures. He's 
that sort of chap. But, as the creatures never 
seemed to lose their heads over him, it had 
never amounted to much. 

" I imagine you know perfectly well why 
Gussie went to America, Bertie. You know 
how wickedly extravagant your Uncle Cuth- 
bert was." 

She alluded to Gussie's governor, the late 
head of the family, and I am bound to say 
she spoke the truth. Nobody was fonder of 
old Uncle Cuthbert than I was, but everybody 
knows mat, where money was concerned, he 
was the most complete chump in the annals 

of the nation. He had an expensive thirst. 
He never backed a horse that didn't get 
housemaid s knee in the middle of the race. 
He had a system of beating the bank at 
Monte Carlo which used to make the adminis- 
tration hang out the bunting and ring the 
joy-bells when he was sighted in the offing. 
Take him for all in all, dear old Uncle Cuth- 
bert was as willing a spender as ever called 
the family lawyer a bloodsucking vampire 
because he wouldn't let Uncle Cuthbert cut 
down the timber to raise another thousand. 

" He left your Aunt Julia very little money 
for a woman in her position. Beechwood 
requires a great deal of keeping up, and 
poor dear Spencer, though he does his best 
to help, has not unlimited resources. It 
was clearly understood why Gussie went to 
America. He is not clever, but he is very 
good-looking, and, though he has no title, 
the Mannering-Phippses are one of the best 
and oldest families in England. He had some 
excellent letters of introduction, and when 
he wrote home to say that he had met the 
most charming and beautiful girl in the world 
I felt quite happy. He continued to rave 
about her for several mails, and then this 
morning a letter has come from him in which 
he says, quite casually as a sort of after- 
thought, that he knows we are broadminded 
enough not to think any the worse of her 
because she is on the vaudeville stage." 

" Oh. I say ! " 

" It was like a thunderbolt. The girl's name 
it seems, is Ray Denison, and according to 
Gussie she does something which he describes 
as a single on the big time. What this degraded 
performance may be I have not the feast 
notion. As a further recommendation he 
states that she lifted them out of their seats 
at Mosenstein's last week. Who she may be, 
and how or why, and who or what Mr. Mosen- 
stein may be, I cannot tell you." 

" By Jove," I said, " it's like a sort of 
thingummy-bob, isn't it ! A sort of fate, 
what ? " 

" I fail to understand you." 

" Well, Aunt Julia, you know, don't you 
know ? Heredity and so forth. What's 
bred in the bone will come out in fhe wash, 
and all that kind of thing, you know." 

" Don't be absurd, Bertie." 

That was all very well, but it was a coinci- 
dence for all that. Nobody ever mentions 
it, and the family have been trying to forget 
it for twenty-five years, but it's a known fact 
that my Aunt Julia, Gussie's mother, was a 
vaudeville artist ; Qtyr^Rirf|fWt!P r y good one, 
too, I'm told. She was playing in pantomime 




at Drury Lane when Uncle Cuthbert saw 
her first. It was before my time, of course, 
and long before I was old enough to 
take notice the family had made the best of 
it, and Aunt Agatha had pulled up her socks 
and put in a lot of educative work, and with 
a microscope you couldn't tell Aunt Julia 
from a genuine dyed-in-the-wool aristocrat. 
Women adapt themselves so quickly ! 

I have a pal who married Daisy Trimble 
of the Gaiety, and when I meet her now I feel 
like walking out of her presence backwards. 
But there the thing was, and you couldn't 
get away from it. Gussie had vaudeville 
blood in him, and it looked as if he 
were reverting to type, or whatever they 
call it. 

** By Jove," I said, for I am interested in 
this heredity stuff, " perhaps the thing is 
going to be a regular family tradition, like 
you read about in books — a sort of Curse 
of the Mannering-Phippses, as it were. Per- 
haps each head of the family's going to marry 
into vaudeville for ever and ever. Unto the 
what-d'you-call-it generation, don't you 
know ? " 

" Please do not be quite idiotic, Bertie. 
There is one head of the family who is cer- 
tainly not going to do it, and that is Gussie. 
And you are going to America to stop him." 
" Yes, but why me ? " 
" Why you ? You are too vexing, Bertie* 
Have you no sort of feeling f#r the family ? 
You are too lazy to try to be a credit to your- 
self, but at least you can exert yourself to 
prevent Gussie' s disgracing us. You are 
going to America because you are Gussie' s 
cousin, because you have always been his 
closest friend, because you are the only one 
of the family who has absolutely nothing to 
occupy his time except golf and night clubs." 
" I play a lot of auction." 
" And, as you say, idiotic gambling in 
low dens. If you require another reason, 
you are going because I ask you as a personal 

What she meant was that, if I refused, she 
would exert the full bent of her natural genius 
to make life a Hades for me. She held me 
with her glittering eye. I have never met 
anyone who can give a better imitation of 
the Ancient Mariner. 

" So you will start at once, won't vou, 
Bertie ? " 
I didn't hesitate. 

" Rather ! " I said. " Of course I will." 
Jeeves came in with the tea. 
" Jeeves," I said, " we start for America 
on Saturday." 

" Very good, sir," he said ; " which suit 
will you wear ? " 

New York is a large city conveniently 
situated on the edge of America, so that you 
step off the liner right on to it without an 
effort. You can't lose your way. You go 
out of a barn and down some stairs, and there 
you are, right in among it. The only possible 
objection any reasonable chappie could find 
to the place is that they loose you into it 
from the boat at such an ungodly hour. 

I left Jeeves to get my baggage safely 
past an aggregation of suspicious-minded 
pirates who were digging for buried treasures 
among my new shirts, and drove to Gussie' s 
hotel, where I requested the squad of gentle- 
manly clerks behind the desk to produce him. 

That's where I got my first shock. He 
wasn't there. I pleaded with them to think 
again, and they thought again, bu* it was no 
good. No Augustus Mannering-Phipps on 
the premises. 

I admit I was hard hit. There I was alone 
in a strange city and no signs of Gussie. 
What was the next step ? I am never one 
of the master minds in the early mprning ; 
the old bean doesn't somehow seem to get 
into its stride till pretty late in the p.m.'s, 
and I couldn't think what to do. However, 
some instinct took me through a door at the 
back of the lobby, and I found myself in a 
large room with an enormous picture stretch- 
ing across the whole of one wall, and under 
the picture a counter, and behind the counter 
divers chappies in white, serving drinks. 
They have barmen, don't you know, in New 
York, not barmaids. Rum idea ! 

I put myself unreservedly into the hands 
of one of the white chappies. He was a 
friendly soul, and I told him the whole state 
of affairs. I asked him what he thought 
would meet the case. 

He said that in a situation of that sort he 
usually prescribed a lightning whizzer, an 
invention of his own. He said this was what 
rabbits trained on when they were matched 
against grizzly bears, and there was only one 
instance on record of the bear having lasted 
three rounds. So I tried a couple, and, by 
Jove ! the man was perfectly right. As I 
drained the second a great load seemed to 
fall from my heart, and I went out in 
quite a braced way to have a look at the 

I was surprised to find the streets quite 
full. People were bustling along as if it were 
some reasonable hour and not the grey dawn. 
In the ir am :ars they lViteHd'bsdutely standing 



on each other's necks. Going to business or 
something, I take it. Wonderful johnnies ! 

The odd part of it was that after the first 
shock of seeing all this frightful energy the 
thing didn't seem so strange. I've spoken 
to fellows since who have been to New York, 
and they tell me they found it just the same. 
Apparently there's something in the air, 
either the ozone or the phosphates or some- 
thing, which makes you sit up and take notice. 
A kind of zip, as it were. A sort of bally 
freedom, if you know what I mean, that gets 
into your blood and bucks you up, and makes 
you feel that — 

God's in His Heaven : 
All's right with-*he world, 

and you don't care if you've got odd socks 
on. I can't express it better than by saying 
that the thought uppermost in my mind, as 
I walked about the place they call Times 
Square, was that there were three thousand 
miles of deep water between me and my 
Aunt Agatha. 

It's a funny thing about looking for things. 
If you hunt for a needle in a- haystack you 
don't find it. If you don't give a darn 
whether you ever see the needle or not it 
runs into you the first time you lean against 
the stack. By the time I had strolled up and 
down once or twice, seeing the sights and 
letting the white chappie's corrective permeate 
my system, I was feeling that I wouldn't care 
if Gussie and I never met again, and I'm 
dashed if I didn't suddenly catch sight of 
the old lad, as large as life, just turning in 
at a doorway down the street. 

I called after him, but he didn't hear me, 
so I legged it in pursuit and caught him going 
into an office on the first floor. The name 
on the door was Abe Riesbitter, Vaudeville 
Agent, and from the other side of the door 
came the sound of many voices. 

He turned and stared at me. 

" Bertie ! What on earth are you doing ? 
Where have you sprung from ? When did 
you arrive ? " 

" Landed this morning. I went round to 
your hotel, but they said you weren't there. 
They had never heard of you." 

44 I've changed my name. I call myself 
George Wilson." 

" Why on earth ? " 

" Well, you try calling yourself Augustus 
Mannering-Phipps over here, and see how it 
strikes you. You feel a perfect ass. I don't 
know what it is about America, but the 
broad fact is that it's not a place where you 
can call yourself Augustus Mannering-Phipps. 
And there's another reason. I'll tell you 

later. Bertie, I've fallen in love with the 
dearest girl in the world." 

The poor old nut looked at me in such 
a deuced cat-like way, standing with his 
mouth open, waiting to be congratulated, 
that I simply hadn't the heart to tell him 
that I knew all about that already, and had 
come over to the country for the express 
purpose of laying him a stymie. 

So I congratulated him. 

" Thanks awfully, old man," he said. 
" It's a bit premature, but I fancy it's going 
to be all right. Come along in here, and I'll 
tell you about it." 

u What do you want in this place ? It 
looks a rummy spot." 

44 Oh, that's part of the story. Til tell you 
the whole thing." 

We opened the door marked " Waiting 
room." I never saw such a crowded place 
in my life. The room was packed till the walls 

Gussie explained. 

44 Pros," he said, " music-hall artistes, you 
know, waiting to see old Abe Riesbitter. 
This is September the first, vaudeville's 
opening day. The early fall," said Gussie, 
who is a bit of a poet in his way, 44 is vaude- 
ville's springtime. All over the country, as 
August wanes, sparkling comediennes burst 
into bloom, the sap stirs in the veins of tramp 
cyclists, and last year's contortionists, waking 
from their summer sleep, tie themselves 
tentatively into knots. What I mean is, 
this is the beginning of the new season, and 
everybody's out hunting for bookings." 

44 But what do you want here ? " 

44 Oh, I've just got to see Abe about 
something. If you see a fat man with about 
fiftv-seven chins come out of that door there 
grab him, for that'll be Abe. He's one of those 
fellows who advertise each step up they take 
in the world by growing another chin. I'm 
told that way back in the 'nineties he only had 
two. If you do grab Abe, remember that he 
knows me as George Wilson." 

44 You said you were going to explain that 
George Wilson business to me, Gussie, old 

44 Well, it's this wav " 

At this juncture dear old Gussie broke off 
short, rose from his seat, and sprang with 
indescribable vim at an extraordinarily stout 
chappie who had suddenly appeared. There 
was the deuce of a rush for him, but Gussie 
had got away to a good start, and the rest of 
the singers, dsr.cerr;, jugglers, acrobats, and 
refined sketch teams, r $i$WMjl to recognize 
that^yM^UvW^th'tf^Wd^tor they ebbed 



back into their places again, and Gussie and 
1 went into the inner room, 

Mr. Riesbitter lit a cigar, and looked at us 
solemnly over his zareba of chins. 

11 Now let me tell ya something," he said, 
to Gussie. " You lizzun V me." 

Gussie registered respectful attention. Mr. 
Riesbitter mused 
for a mom ent 
and shelled the 
cuspidor with 
indirect fire over 
the edge of the 

i( Lizzun t ] 
me," he said 
again, rt I seen 
you rehearse, as 
I promised Miss 
Denison I would. 
You ain't had 
tor an amateur. 
You gotta lot to 
learn T but it's 
in you. What it 
comes to is that 
1 can fix you up 
in the four-a- 
day, if you'll take 
thirty-five per* I 
can't do better 
than that, and 
I wouldn't have 
done that if the 
little lady hadn't 
of kep' after me. 
Take it or leave 
it. What do vou 
say? n 

■* I 1 II take it/' said Gussie, huskily. " Thank 

In the passage outside Gussie gurgled with 
joy and slapped me on the hack, ' Bertie, 
old man, it's all right. Tin the happiest man 
in New York/' 

" Now what ? ,? 

'* Well, you see, as I was telling you when 
Abe came in. Ray's father used to he in 
the profession. He was before our time, hut 
I remember hearing about him- Joe Dan by* 
He used to be well known in London before 
he came over to America. Well, he's a fine 
old bov. but as obstinate as a mule, and he 
didnt like the idea of Ray marrying me, 
because I wasn't in the profession. Wouldn't 
hear of it. Well^ you remember at Oxford 
^ I could always sing a song pretty well ; so 
Ray got hold of old Riesbitter and made him 
promise to come and hear me rehearse and 

VuL h, -Xi. 


get me bookings if he liked my work. She 
stands high with him. She coached me for 
weeks, the darling. And now, as you heard 
him say, he's booked ine in the small time at 
thirty-five dollars a week/ 7 

I steadied myself against the wall- The 
effects of the restoratives supplied by my pal 

at the hotel bar 
were beginning 
to work off, and 
I felt a little 
weak. Through 
a sort of mist I 
seemed to have 
a vision of Aunt 
Agatha hearing 
that the head of 
the Mannering- 
P h i p p ses was 
about to appear 
on the vaudeville 
stage. Aunt 
Agatha's worship 
of the family 
name amounts to 
an obsess ion. 
The Mannering- 
Phippses were un 
old- established 
clan when Wil- 
liam* the Con- 
queror was a 
small boy going 
round with bare 
legs and a cata- 
pult, For cen- 
turies they have 
called kings by 
their first names 
and helped dukes with their weekly rent ; 
and there's practically nothing a Manner- 
ing-Phipps can do that doesn't blot his 
escutcheon. So what Aunt Agatha would 
say — beyond saying that it was all my 
fault- when she learned the horrid news, 
it was beyond me to imagine. 

4L Come hack to the hotel, Gussie/' I said. 
4 There's a sportsman there who mixes things 
he calls lightning wliiz/rrs. Something tells 
me I need one now. And excuse me for one 
minute, Gussie, I want to send a cable/' 

ft was clear to me by now that Aunt 
Agatha had picked the wrong man for this 
Job of disentangling Gussie from the clutches 
of the American vaudeville profession. What 
I needed was reinforcements. For a moment 
I thought of cabling Aunt Agatha to come 
over, hut reason told me that this would be 
overdoing it. I wanted assistance, but not so 




badly as that I hit what seemed to me the 
happy mean, I cabled to Gussie's mother 
and made it urgent, 

11 What were you cabling al>out ? n asked 
Gussie, later, 

£t Oh, just to say I had arrived safely, and 
all that .sort of tosh/' I answered. 

Gussie opened his vaudeville career on the 
following Monday at a rummy sort of place 
uptown where they had moving pictures some 
of the time and, in between, one or two 
vaudeville acts. It had taken a lot of careful 
handling to bring him up to the scratch. 
He seemed to take my sympathy and assis- 
tance for granted, and I couldn't let him down. 
My only hope, which grew as I listened to 
him rehearsing, was that he would be such a 
frightful frost at his first appearance that he 
would never dare to perform again ; and, as 
that would automatically squash the marriage, 
it seemed best to me to let tfte thing go oft. 

H e w asn't 
taking any 
chances. On the 
Saturday and Sun- 
day we practically 
lived in a beastly 
little music-room 
at the offices of 
the pu b lishers 
whose songs he 
proposed to usl j . 
A little chappie 
with a hooked 
nose sucked a 
cigarette and 
played the piano 
all day, Nothing 
could tire that lad, 
He seemed to take 
a personal interest 
in the thing. 

Gussie would 
dear his throat 
and begin : — 

-There's a 
great b i g choo- 
choo waiting at 
the deepo/' 

The Chappie (playing chords); 
so ? What's it waiting for ? " 

<h\ssiE (rather rattled at the interruption) : 
11 Waiting for me 

Gussie : " For Frti off to Tennessee." 

The Chappie (conceding a point) : " Now ; 
I live at Yonkers," 

He did this all through the song. At first 
poor old Gussie asked him to stop, but the 
chappie said. No, it was always done. It 
helped to get pop into the thing* He appealed 
to me whether the thing didn't want a bit of 
pep, and I said it wanted all the pep it could 
get. And the chappie said to Gussie^ " There 
you are ! " So Gussie had to stand it. 

The other song that he intended to sing 
was one of those moon songs. He told me in 
a hushed voice that he was using it because 
it was one of the songs that the girl Ray sang 
when lifting them out of their seats at Mosen- 
s tern's and elsewhere. The fact seemed to 
give it sacred associations for him. 

You will scarcely believe me, but the 
management expected Gussie to show up' 
and start performing at one o'clock in the 
afternoon. I told him thev couldn't be 




Js that 

The Chappie (surprised): *' 
Gussie (sticking to it): 

me-e-ee ! " 
The riiAt'i'TK (sceptically): 


Digitized by \^k 

For you ? 
■' Waiting 


You don't 

serious as they must know that he would be 
rolling out for a bit of lunch at that hour, but 
Gussie said this was the usual thing in the 
four- a- da v, and he didn't suppose he would 
ever pet any lunch again until he landed on 
the big time. I was just condoling with him. 
when I found that he was taking it for granted 
that I should be there at one o'clock, too* My 
idea had been that I should look in at night, 
when— itJftgj^MV^f+i - he would be coming 




up for the fourth time; but I've never 
deserted a pal in distress, so I said good bye 
to the little lunch I'd been planning at a 
rather decent tavern I'd discovered on 
Fifth Avenue, and trailed along. They 
were showing pictures when I reached my 
seat. It was one of those Western films, 
where the cowboy jumps on his horse and 
rides across country at a hundred and fifty 
miles an hour to escape the sheriff, not know- 
ing, poor chump ! that he might just as well 
stay where he is, the sheriff having a horse 
of his own which can do three hundred miles 
an hour without coughing. I was just going 
to close my eyes and try to forget till they put 
Gussie' s name up when I discovered that I 
was sitting next to a deucedly pretty girl. 

No, let me be honest. When I went in I 
had seen that there was a deucedly pretty 
girl sitting in that particular seat, so I had 
taken the next one. What happened now 
was that I began, as it were, to drink her in. I 
wished they would turn the lights up so that 
I could see her better. She was rather small, 
with great big eyes and a ripping smile. It was 
a shame to let all that run to seed, so to speak, 
in semi-darkness. 

Suddenly the lights did go up, and the 
orchestra began to play a tune which, though 
I haven't much of an )ear for music, seemed 
somehow familiar. The next instant out 
pranced old Gussie from the wings in a purple 
frock-coat and a brown top-hat, grinned 
feebly at the audience, tripped over his feet, 
blushed, and began to sing the* Tennessee 

It was rotten. The poor nut had got stage 
fright so badly that it practically eliminated 
his voice. He sounded like some far-off 
echo of the past " yodeling " through a 
woollen blanket. 

For the first time since I had heard that 
he was about to go into vaudeville I felt a 
faint hope creeping over me. I was sorry 
for the wretched chap, of course, but there 
was no denying that the thing had its bright 
side. No management on earth would go 
on paying thirty-five dollars a week for this 
sort of performance. This was going to be 
Gussie's first and only. He would have to 
leave the profession. The old boy would 
say, " Unhand my daughter." And, with 
decent luck, I saw myself leading Gussie on 
to the next England-bound liner and handing 
him over intact to Aunt Agatha. 

He got through the song somehow, and 
limped off amidst roars of silence from the 
audience. There was a brief respite, then 
out he came again. 


He sang this time as if nobody loved him. 
As a song, it was not a very pathetic song, 
being all about coons spooning in June under 
the moon, and so on and so forth, but Gussie 
handled it in such a sad, crushed way that 
there was genuine anguish in every line. 
By the time he reached the refrain I was 
nearly in tears. It seemed such a rotten 
sort of world with all that kind of thing 
going on in it. 

He started the refrain, and then the most 
frightful thing happened. The girl next me 
got up in her seat, chucked her head back, 
and began to sing, too. I say " too," but 
it wasn't really too, because her first note 
stopped Gussie dead, as if he had been 

I never felt so bally conspicuous in my 
life. I huddled down in my seat and wished 
I could turn my collar up. Everybody 
seemed to be looking at me. 

In the midst of my agony I caught sight 
of Gussie. A complete change had taken 
place in the old lad. He was looking most 
frightfully bucked. I must say the girl was 
singing most awfully well, and it seemed to 
act on Gussie like a tonic. When she came 
to the end of the refrain he took it up, and 
they sang it together, and the end of it was 
that he went off the popular hero. The 
audience yelled for more, and were only 
quieted when they turned down the lights 
and put on a film. 

When I had recovered I tottered round to 
see Gussie. I found him sitting on a box 
behind the stage, looking like one who had 
seen visions. 

" Isn't she a wonder, Bertie ? " he said, 
devoutly. " I hadn't a notion she was 
going to be there. She's playing the 
Auditorium this week, and she can only 
just have had time to get back to her 
matinie. She risked being late, just to 
come and see me through. She's my good 
angel, Bertie. She saved me. If she hadn't 
helped me out I don't know what would 
have happened. I was so nervous I didn't 
know what I was doing. Now that I've 
got through the first show I shall be all 

I was glad I had sent that cable to his 
mother. I was going to need her. The 
thing had got beyond me. 

During the next week I saw a lot of old 
Gussie, and was introduced to the girl. I 
also met her father, a formidable old boy 
with thick eyebrows and a sort of determined 
expression. On the following Wednesday 




Aunt Julie arrived, Mrs, Mannering-Phipps, 
my Aunt Julia, is^ I thinks the most dignified 
person I know. She larks Aunt Agatha's 
punch, hut in a quiet way she has always 
contrived to make me feel, from boyhood up, 
that I was a poor worm. Not that .she 
harries me like Aunt Agatha. The difference 
hetween the two is that Aunt Agatha conveys 
the impression that she considers me per- 
sonally responsible for all the sin and sorrow 
in the world, while Aunt Julie's manner 
seems to suggest that I am more to be pitied 
than censured. 

If it wasn't that the thing was a matter 
of historical fact, I should l)e inclined to 
Itelieve that Aunt Julia had never been on 
the vaudeville stage. She is like .i su_!i 

She always seems to me to be in a per- 
petual state of bein^ about to desire the 
butler to instruct the head footman to serve 
lunch in the blue room overlooking the west 
terrace. She exudes dignity. Vet. 
twenty-five years af>o, so I've been told 
by old bays who were kds alx>ut tuun 
in those days, she was knocking them 
cold at the Tivoli in a double act called 
*' Fun in a Tea-Shop/' in which she 
wore tights and sang a song with a 
chorus that began ll Rumty-tiddley- 

There are some things a chappie' s 
mind absolutely refuses to picture, 
unci Aunt Julia singing " Rumpty- 
tiddley ■ umpty-ay ' is one of 

She got straight to the point 
within five minutes of our meet- 

" What is this about Gussie ? 
Why did you cable for me, 
Bertie? " 

11 It's rather a Ion*; story/' I 
said, "and complicated. H you 
dont mind, Til let you have 
it in a series of motion pictures, 
Suppose we look in at the Audi- 
torium for a few minutes.'' 

The girl, Ray, had been re- 
engaged for a second week at the 
Auditorium, owjhl; to the big 
success of her first week, Her 
act consisted of three songs. She 
did herself well in the matter of 
costume and scenery, She had a 
ripping voice. She looked most 
awfully pretty ; and altogether, 
the act waSj broadly speaking, a 

FPPm Digitized by Google 

Aunt Julia didn't speak till we were in 
our seats. Then she gave a sort of sigh. 

u Its twenty-five years since I wus in a 
music- hall ! ; ' 

She didn't say any more, hut sat there 
with her eyes glued on the stage. 

After alwut half an hour the Johnnies 
who work the card-index system at the side 
of the stage put up the name of Ray Denison, 
and there was a good deal of applause. 

" Watch this act. Aunt Julia/ 1 I said. 

She didn't seem to hear me. 

il Twenty-five years ! What did you say 
Bertie ? ,f 

HER HEAD BAQf-JcfJm| iffSfff TO SING/* 




" Watch this act and tell me what you 
think of it." 

44 Who is it ? Ray. Oh ! " 

" Exhibit A," I said. " The girl Gussie's 
engaged to." 

The girl did her act, and the house rose 
at her. They didn't want to let her go. She 
had to come back again and again. When 
she had finally disappeared I turned to 
Aunt Julia. 

44 Well ? " I said. 

" I like her work. She's an artist." 

" We will now, if you don't mind, step a 
goodish way uptown." 

And we took the subway to where Gussie, 
the human film, was earning his thirty-five 
per. As luck would have it, we hadn't been 
in the place ten minutes when out he came. 

" Exhibit B," I said. " Gussie." 

I don't quite know what I had expected her 
to do, but I certainly didn't expect her to 
sit there without a word. She did not move 
a muscle, but just stared at Gussie as he 
drooled on about the moon. I was sorry for 
the woman, for it must have been a shock 
to her to see her only son in a mauve frock 
coat and a brown top-hat, but I thought it 
best to let her get a strangle-hold on the 
intricacies of the situation as quickly as 
possible. If I had tried to explain the affair 
without the aid of illustrations I should have 
talked all day and left her muddled up as 
to who was going to marry whom, and why. 

I was astonished at the improvement in dear 
old Gussie. He had got Dack his voice and 
was putting the stuff over well. It reminded 
me of the night at Oxford when, then but 
a lad of eighteen, he sang t4 Let's All Go Down 
the Strand " after a bump supper, standing 
the while up to his knees in the college foun- 
tain. He was putting just the same zip into 
the thing now. 

When he had gone off Aunt Julia sat 
perfectly still for a long time, and then she 
turned to me. Her eyes shone queerly. 

44 What does this mean, Bertie ? " 

She spoke quite quietly, but her voice 
shook a bit. 

" Gussie went into the business," I said, 
" because the girl's father wouldn't let him 
marry her unless he did. If you feel up to it 
perhaps you wouldn't mind tottering round 
to One Hundred and Thirty-Third Street 
and having a chat with him. He's an old boy 
with eyebrows, and he's. Exhibit C on my 
list. When I've put you in touch with him 
I rather fancy my share of the business is 
concluded, and it's up to you." 

The Danbys lived in one of those big 

apartments uptown which look as If they cost 
the earth and really cost about half as much 
as a hall-room down in the forties. We were 
shown into the sitting-room, and presently old 
Danby came in. 

44 Good afternoon, Mr. Danby," I began. 

I had got as far as that when there was 
a kind of gasping cry at my elbow. 

44 Joe ! " cried Aunt Julia, and staggered 
against the sofa. 

For a moment old Danby stared at her, 
and then his' mouth fell open and his eye- 
brows shot up like rockets. 

44 Julie ! " 

And then they had got hold of each other's 
hands and were shaking them till I wondered 
their arms didn't come unscrewed. 

I'm not equal to this sort of thing at such 
short notice. The change in Aunt Julia made 
me feel quite dizzy. She had shed her grande- 
datne manner completely, and was blushing 
and smiling. I don't like to say such things 
of any aunt of mine, or I would go farther and 
put it on record that she was giggling. And 
old Danby, who usually looked like across 
between a Roman emperor and Napoleon 
Bonaparte in a bad temper, was behaving like 
a small boy. 

" Joe ! " 

4 ' Julie ! " 

44 Dear old Joe ! Fancy meeting you 
again ! " 

44 Wherever have you come from, Julie ? " 

Well, I didn't know what it was all about, 
but I felt a bit out of it. I butted in : — 

44 Aunt Julia wants to have a talk with you, 
Mr. Danby." 

44 1 knew you in a second, Joe ! " 

" It's twenty-five years since I saw you, 
kid, and you don't look a day older." 

44 Oh, Joe ! I'm an old woman ! " 

44 What are you doing over here ? I suppose" 
— old Danby 's cheerfulness waned a trifle — 
44 I suppose your husband is with you ? " 

44 My husband died a long, long while ago, 

Old Danbv shook his head. 

44 You never ought to have married out of 
the profession, Julie. I'm not saying a word 
against the late — I can't remember his name ; 
never could — but you shouldn't have done it, 
an artist like you. Shall I ever forget the 
way you used to knock them with 4 Rumpty- 
tiddley-umpty-ay ' ? " 

44 Ah ! how wonderful you were in that 
act, Joe." Aunt Julia sighed. 4t Do you 
remember the back-fall you used to do down 
the steps ? I always have said that you did 
the best back-fall in the profession." 


? o 


" I couldn't do it now ! " 

** Do you remember how we put it across 
at the Canterbury, Joe ? Think of it ! The 
Canterbury's a moving-picture house now, 
and the old Mogul runs French revues, ,J 

'* Fm glad I'm not there to see them," 

" Joe, tell me, why did you leave 
England ? w 

4 * Well, I— I wanted a change. No, 111 
tell you the truth, kid, I wanted you, Julie, 
You went off and married that — whatever 
that stage-door Johnny's name was — and it 
broke me all up," 

Aunt Julia was staring at him. She is 
what they call a well-preserved woman. It's 
easy to see that, twenty™ five years ago, she 
must have been something quite extraordinary 
to look at. Even now she's almost beautiful. 
She has very large brown eyes, a mass of soft 
grey hair, and the complexion of a girl of 

11 Joe, you aren't going to tell me you were 
fond of me yourself ! n 

li Of course I was fond of you. Why did 
I let you have 
all the fat in 
1 Fun in a Tea- - 
shop'? Why did 
I hang about up- 
stage while you 
sang * Rumpty- 
tiddley- umpty- 
ay ' ? Do you 
re mem ber my 
giving you a bag 
of hmis when we 
were on the road 
at Bristol?" 

" Yes, but—" 

M Do you re- 
member my giv- 
ing you the ham 
sand w i dies at 
Portsmouth ? " 

11 Joe ! " 

Si Do you re- 
member my 
giving you a 
seed-cake at 
U ir mingham ? 
What did you 
think all t li a t 
meant, if not that 
I 1 o v e d you ? 
Why ? I was working up by degrees to 
telling you straight out when you suddenly 
went off and married that cane-sucking 
dude. That's why I wouldn't let my 
daughter marry this young chap, Wilson, 

unless he went into the profession. She's 
an artist — — " 

" She certainly is, Joe." 

" You've seen her ? Where ? " 

lt At the Auditorium just now. But, Joe, 
you mustn't stand in the way of her marrying 
the man she's in love with. He's an artist, 

M In the small time," 

" You were in the small time once, Joe. 
You mustn't look down on him because he's 
a beginner* I know you feel that your 
daughter is marrying beneath her, but — - — *' 

*' How on earth do you know anything 
about voung Wilson ? " 

11 He's mv son," 

41 Your son? 3J 

" Yes, Joe, And I've just been watch- 
ing him work. Oh, Joe, you can't think how 
proud I was of him ! He's got it in him. 
It's fate. He's my son and he's in the pro- 
fession ! Joe, you don t know what I've 
been through for his sake. They made a lady 
of me- I never worked so hard in my life 


as f did to become a real lady. They kept 
telling me I had got to put it across, no matter 
what it cost, so that he wouldn't be ashamed 
of me, The study. ^was something terrible. 
I had to WJlSH l ffl\«W 1 &vcry minute for years, 




and I never knew when I might fluff in rny 
lines or fall down on some bit of business, 
hut I did it, because I didn't want him to be 
ashamed of me, though all the time I wau just 
aching to be back where I belonged."' 

Old Danby made a jump at her, and took 
her hy the shoulders, 

'* Come back where you belong, Julie ! " 
he cried. * Your husband 1 s deadj your son's 
a pro. Tome back ! It's twenty- five years 
ago. hut I haven't changed. I want you still. 
I've always wanted you. You* ve got to come 
back, kid, where you belong/' 

Aunt Julia gave a sort of gulp and looked 
at him. 

11 Joe ! " she said, in a kind of whisper. 

" You're here, kid," said old Danby, 
huskily. ** You've come back, * . . Twenty- 
five years ! * . . ♦ You've come back and 
you're going to stay ! " 

She pitched forward into his arms, and he 
caught her- 

£L Oh, Joe ! Joe ! joe ! " she said. " Hold 
me. Don't let me go. Take care of me/' 

And I edged 
for the door 
and slipped 
from the room. 
I felt weak . The 
old bean will 
stand a certain 
amount , but 
this was too 
much. I groped 
my way out 
into the street 
and wailed for 
a taxi. 

Gussie called 
on me at the 
hotel that 
night. He cur- 
vetted into the 
room as if he 
had bought it 
and the rest of 
the city, 

" Bertie," he 
said. "I feel 
as if I were 

" I w i s h I 
could feel like 
that, old top/ 5 
I said, and I 
took another 
glance at a 
cable that had 
arrived half an 

by Google 

hour ago from Aunt Agatha* I had been 
looking at it at intervals ever since. 

" Ray and 1 got back to her flat this 
evening. Who do you think was there ? The 
mater ! She was sitting hand in hand with 
old Dauby/' 
u Yes?" 

u He was sitting hand in hand with hen" 
" Really ? " 

M They are going to be married/' 
" Exactly/' 

<L Ray and I are going to be married/' 
* f I suppose so/' 

" Bertie, old man, I feel immense. I look 
round me, and everything seems to me 
absolutely corking. The change in the mater 
is marvellous- She is twenty-five years 
younger. She and old Danby are talking of 
reviving ' Fun in a Tea- Shop/ and going out 
on the road with it/' 
I got up. 

M Gussie, old top/ 3 I said, N leave me for 
awhile. I would be alone. I think I've got 
brain fever or something/' 

11 Sorry, old man ; perhaps 
New York doesn't agree 
with you. When do you 
expect to go back to Eng- 
land ? " 

I looked 
again at Aunt 
Agatha's cable. 
I sa i d j u in 
about ten 

When he 

was gone I 

* *;* took up the 

cable and read 

it again. 

"What is 
happening? 1 it 
read. 41 Shall 1 
come over ? yi 

I sucked a 
pencil for 
awhile, and 
then I wrote 
the reply. 

It was not 
an easy cable 
to word, but I 
'■ it was not an easv managed it, 

CABLE TO WORD, BUT 1 * ' N O , ? I 

MANAGED IT." wrote, " Stay 

where you are* 









HAT arc the rations allowed 
to the soldiers of the different 
armies on active service ? 
This is an exceptionally 
interesting question just now, 
when more than half the 
civilized world is at war, 
Every one of the l>elligerent nations feeds its 
army in the field differently. 

Let us take the diets of the enemy armies 
first. For the following figures, except 
those for the British and the French ration, 
I am indebted to the Hon, Rollo Russell, 
who, in his book on il Strength and Diet," 
published in 1903, has brought together 
much interesting matter respecting the 
soldier's fare. 

Here is the 
soldier : — 

35oz* Bread 
17"65oz. Meat (raw) 

The Austrian soldier in the field receives : — 
AQH07. Bread 10 6oz. Fresh Beef 

4'9oz* Rice or Pre- 0"7 oz. Lard 

served Vegetable 0'46oz* Sugar 

l"3oz. Preserved Soup 

No recent statistics are apparently avail- 
able for the Turkish ration, but probablv the 
great majo:ity of the Turkish troops still 
have their traditional fare of bre 

war ration of the German 

I 2 cut Peas. 

!'7Goz. Butter 


rice, butter, and salt, with only a little 
mutton* There is obviously no uniformity 
about these three diets. The German ration 
is much higher in body- building substances 
and in energy units than is the ration either 
of the Austrian soldier or the Turk, 

Differences just as pronounced and funda- 
mental result when any similar comparison 
is made between the British and French 
ration, and again between that of the 
Russian and the Italian, 

The British field ration, ExjK'ditionary 
Force, 1914* comprises : — 

1 1 lb* Fresh Meat 4oz. Jam 

1 jib. Bread 3oz. Sugar 

4oz. Bacon 2oz. Dried Vegetables 

3oz, Cheese 

The French soldier, according to Gautier, 
gets considerably less meat than this in his : — 

35oz. Bread 2 ^02. Vegetables in 

1 1 02. Flesh loz. Sugar [grain 

Rollo Russell gives the following figures 
for the large war ration of the Russian 
soldier :■ — 

36'15oz. Rye Bread 4*6oz. Groats [Tallow 
2r67oz. Flesh 2 72oz. Butter or 

According to the same authority, the 
Italian soldier under training received only : — 
324o2, Bread 5*3oz. Rice 

1 0*5 9oz. Flesh 071 oz. Sugar 

0*53oz, Bacdfiiq 





An impartial study of the customs and 
habits of warlike tribes and peoples of the 
past brings to light equally striking differ- 
ences with regard to their feeding in wan 
Roast beef and similar flesh-foods, with curd 
cheese and honey, constituted the traditional 
diet of the Homeric heroes* Ancient Persian 
soldiers, however, who lived under much the 
same conditions of climate and environment, 
fought their battles and marched well over 
vast tracts of country on a diet of bread, 
vegetables, and fruit. The early Greeks 
more than held their own in battle on a fare 
equally plain, of maize, vegetables (including 
olives), oil, and probably some herbs and 
fruits. Their Western rivals and ultimate 
conquerors, the early Romans, also made 
themselves masters of Italy and much of the 
adjoining country on a very parsimonious 
ration of corn and lard. 

The Saracens, who in their day were one 
of the most military peoples of the Mediter- 
ranean basin, had only rice, fruit, milk ? and 
barley bread. Until a few years ago the 
Japanese fought splendidly and endured 
e% r ery hardship and fatigue incidental to war 
on unpolished rice, eggs, dried fish, dried 
fruit, and, I believe, soya bean preparations. 
Many of the Arab tribes who have at different 
periods contested the white man's 
advance in Asia and Africa have 
displayed a sublime heroism on 
a frugal fare of dates 
and milk. In strict 
contrast to this a 
diet almost exclu- - m i -_ \ 

sively of dried or 
powdered flesh was 
favoured by several 
of the most vigor- 
ous warlike tribes of America when they 
first met with the Europeans, 

To come nearer home, Froissart says that 
the Scotch fighting-men in mediaeval days 
carried boiled flesh in skins, a bag of meal, 
and a plate of iron on which they made 
cakes. He tells us, too, that our hearty 
ancestors in the Wars of the Roses relied, 
when fighting, on a very substantial ration 
of two pounds oE beef and one pound of bread, 
with such accessories in eatables and drink 
as good fortune threw in their way. 

In Queen Elizabeth's time the soldier's 
ration hud become more varied. He now 
had corn, bread, beef, herrings and other salt 
fish, salt bacon and beef, cheese, butter, nuts, 
honey, and oil. (By the way, some of these 
items — the nuts, oil, and honey - might with 
advantage be included in the present British 
VoL 1L— a 

ration,) This varied 
diet, however, did 
not last, and in 
1670 the soldier 
w a s restricted to 
two pounds of bread 
with one and a half 
pounds of flesh or 
an equal weight of 

In Portugal, in 
J 808, Wellington's 
troops were pro- 
vided with a ration 
of one pound of 
bread or biscuit and 
one pound of meat, 
salt or fresh. 
" When bread can- 
not be delivered to 
the troops/' says 
the Duke, " they 
shall have two 
pounds of beef for 
their ration." 





In all these differences of diet the standard 
ration is far to seek. It is quite clear that not 
one of these rations is primarily designed with 
a view to supplying the specific needs of the 
man who is fighting. And yet the needs of 
a soldier in respect of food have been constant 
and uniform throughout history, nor are they 
ever likely to vary a great deaL He has always 
needed, and still needs, the kinds and quan- 
tities of foods that will make him strong and 
resolute in battle, and able to endure the 
ordinary and extraordinary alternations of 
heat and cold, the exposure to wet and to 
insanitary conditions of living, without having 
his health undermined and his efficiency as 
a fighter impaired* 

If men who have trained and commanded 
armies in the past have so oft^n not studied 



able and ill-nourishing foods, it was neither in 
ignorance nor malice that they did this thing, 
For all the time they were "up against" 
the practical difficulties of slow and cumbrous 
transport, crucfc methods of preserving food- 
stuffs^ and a limited area from which to draw 
supplies. They found it impossible to study 
primarily the soldiers' needs* It was often 
as much as they could do to supply their 
fighting- men with any food at all t so that they 
had little or no chance to stipulate either for 
quality or quantity. It is these adverse con- 
ditions of transport, preservation, and supply 
that have from time immemorial determined 
tlu 1 nature of the fighting-man's ration. 

Since war was so often carried on in countries 
devastated by the enemy, every army, no 
matter how poorly equipped for this purpose, 
had to he prepared to carry its own food. It 
was, of course, equally essential that such food 
should keep sweet and wholesome for some 
days, and that there should be a relatively 
unfailing source of supply. 

Under these conditions there arose quite 
early in the history of war three principles of 
feeding which have ever since practically deter- 
mined what kind and quantities of food- 
stuffs shall be served to armies in the field. 
First, the food must be concentrated in 
nourishment and compact in form for trans- 
port purposes* Secondly, it must have good 
keeping qualities. Thirdly, it must be pro- 
curable in large quantities, and the source of 
supply must be in no imminent danger of 
attack. From these principles it inevitably 
followed that every nation would feed its 
armies in the field very much on the same 
lines as its civil population were accustomed 
to feed. For the home food was the one source 
of supply that was fairly abundant, and could 
be best safeguarded against attack by the 
enemy. It only remained for them to take 
such of tin st common food-stuffs as could be 
dried, salted; or otherwise preserved by the 

crude empirical methods then in use, and, after 
compressing these into the smallest bulk 
possible, to use them for the feeding of their 

Thus it comes about tliat we have such 
widely different fighting rations as have here 
been commented upon. The soldier every- 
where has been compelled to carry into the 
field the same prejudices and customs of 
eating that obtained among his own people. 
His diet has never differed greatly from 
theirs, except in respect to variety. It has 
always been less varied, since it has been 
impossible to supply him with the fresh 
bulky food-stuffs that could not be preserved 
and compressed. 

National custom, again, lias been equally 
successful in fixing the quantify as well as 
the quality of his food. It has even - where 
been rightly held that the soldier who offers 
his life for his country should be well and 
liberally fed. But warlike trills and nations 
have differed radically as to what constitutes 
liberal feeding. Thus, while the ration of two 
pounds of flesh and one pound of bread 
reflects the popular idea of a libural diet in 
mediaeval England, a far more frugal fare of 
corn and lard reflects the very different view 
that was current in ancient Rome. 

It is here, I think, that we have the kev 

to the present re- 
ences which still 
the army rations 
nations. All 
back to their re- 
custom* and tra- 
ditions of eating, 
and follow cer- 
tain prejudices in 
favour of this or 
that particular 
food stuff and in 
this or that 
quantity of food. 

markable differ- 
obtain a m o n g 
of the belligerent 
these rations run 
s | active national 




of ovr ANCEs^pjgitpraHiEom 



On no other theory can one satisfactorily 
account for such striking differences as come 
to light when a scientific study and com- 
parison is made of these rations. They fall 
readily into tyiro distinct classes — the heavy 
meat ration and the low meat ration, the 
first containing from twenty-four to thirty 
per cent, of flesh food, and the second only 
from seventeen and a half to nineteen per 
cent. But here are the actual figures : — 

Percentage of Meat 


in Ration. 

British ... 


Russian ... 






Austrian ••• 




This close approximation between the three 
high heavy, meat diets on the one hand and 
the three low meat diets on the other is 
singularly interesting. After making a liberal 
allowance for such physiological differences 
as those of build and weight between typical 
men of Italian and Russian nationality, 
between men of French and British, and 
between men of German and Austrian 
nationality, and afjter further allowing for 
physical differences of climate, it is apparent 
that this great disparity is still not satis- 
factorily accounted for. There is a third factor 
which contributes far more to the result, and 
this is the somewhat irrational factor of 
traditional food customs and habits. Tradition 
and custom have always been dominant in 
the past, since in the absence of any true 
science of dietetics men in times of plenty 
and peace have generally followed with un- 
questioning faith the food practices of their 
forefathers. And when war came their diffi- 
culties of supply, preservation of food-stuffs, 
and transport were so great that they were 
obliged to use as best they could the common 
food-stuffs that were ready to hand. 

But to-day Great Britain and her allies 
need not be dominated by tradition and 
custom. With our present command of the 
great trade routes and our elaborate methods 
of preserving and compressing foods and the 
new methods of transport we have at our 
disposal we could provide practically un- 
limited supplies of any and every class of 

But in view of the striking clash between 
our own ration and that of our nearest 
allies, who can say authoritatively which 
are the most suitable foods for soldiers in 
the field ? It is quite obvious that both the 
high meat ration and the low meat ration 
cannot be approximately perfect. Either 

the low meat ration entails serious under" 
feeding or the high meat ration is needlessly 
excessive in nutriment and stimulant. In 
other words, we are face to face to-day in 
this terrible war with one of the most 
gigantic and fateful experments in mass 
feeding that the world has ever witnessed. 

As the struggle progresses we may get to 
know by results (largely in the health and 
efficiency of the fighting-men concerned) 
whether the high or the low meat ration is 
more suited to the needs of the soldier under 
such cramped conditions of life and activity 
as obtain in modern warfare. Other things 
being equal, the ultimate success in this 
long-drawn-out war must tend to fall to the 
armies which are most suitably fed for the 
strenuous and often unhealthy wofk that 
they are called upon to carry through. And 
in war, as we understand it to-day, " other 
things " mean largely munitions and equip- 
ment, strategy and tactics, which, as the 
campaign progresses, seem likely to become 
common properties and attributes with all 
the belligerent armies. 

This being so, the health and endurance of 
the men who are fighting will tend tnore and 
more to play a predominant partt in the 
struggle. And since health and endurance 
depend so closely upon food and feeding, it 
is quite possible that any one or more of the 
belligerent armies in the course of the war 
may have to modify radically its present 
ration. They may be compelled to do this 
for much the same reason that any army, if 
badly led, would have to supersede its 
inefficient generals. 

Modern war is too serious a thing to be 
trifled with. The brilliant work that we 
expect from the soldier can only be per- 
formed by the man who is suitably fed, and 
suitable feeding may not necessarily mean 
feeding with large quantities of flesh-foods. 
We must be sensible in this matter and 
watch results very closely. Especially must 
we be ready often to compare the health 
and efficiency of our own troops through the 
summer and autumn with that of the French 
and Italian troops, who are living and fighting 
on a ration so comparatively low in flesh- 
foods when compared with ours. Possibly, 
in the days ahead of us, there may be some- 
thing for us yet to learn in this all-important 
matter of feeding the soldiers. If so, we 
shall do well not to let any of our national 
idiosyncrasies with regard to food-stuffs 
stand in the way of our providing the best 
of all possible rations for our soldiers in the 


Tke First Illustrated 
Natural History. 


HE first of the illustrated 
Natural History books ap- 
peared in the very early days 
of printing—in 1480, to he 
exact. It was written in the 
most maddening of abbre- 
viated Latin by one Von Cube, 

with the title " Onus Sanatatis," or " Garden 

01 Health/ 3 owing to the fact that each animal 

or plant described was considered with 

reference to its use for curative purposes. 

But it became known to persons in this 

country innocent of Latin through an 

English version by one Barthotomseus. The 

illustrations which we re- 

produce, however/ are 

from the original book-! 

It is sad to announce that 

the name of the artist 

responsible for these 

efforts is lost in the mists 

of antiquity* This is the 

source from which our 

ancestors derived their 

ideas of the animals and 

vegetables of other 

countries, and the source 

from which Shakespeare 

gleaned his knowledge 

of the mandrake, 

sirens, basilisk^ and the 

To judge by the text 

and illustrations, the 

method of compiling such 

a work was vary simple. 

You thought of any two 

animals you pleased, as 

unlike as possible, made 

a jumble of their heads, 

legs, tails, eyes, ears, 

noses, teeth, claws, beaks, fins ; scales, feathers, 

furs, whiskers j and elbows, and there was a 

new chapter on a wholly original animal. 


with an illustration of the mosti&tsrrlling sort. 
When you had thus combined in couples all 
the animals you had ever seen, you started 
more surprising medleys of three at a time, 
and then of four ; after which you "fell back 
on combinations of animals you never had 
seen — -unicorns, griffins, and cockatrices— and 
so persevered till you had a fat folio full of 
the most perfectly untrustworthy information 
ever provided the eager student. 

But such a judgment would be a complete 
mistake. The illustrations are intended to 
show misting animals, drawn from the reports 
of travellers and the descriptions of early 
writers such as Pliny, 
Isidorus, and others. 
There is not a plant or 
animal here shown which 
is not put forward in 
perfect good faith as the 
accurate representation of 
one in actual being. 
Grotesque as they appear 
to us, nothing was further 
from the intention of 
either author or artist 
than any attempt at 

In the fifteenth century 
a Natural History might 
include anything suf- 
ficiently incredible, so that 
it is not surprising ta_ 
find the Tree of Lifu or 
Knowledge of Paradise 
(Fig. 1) described as a 
broadcast species with its 
proper Latin name — one 
quite familiar lo us still— 
Lignum Vti&. Persons 
eating the fruit of this 
tree, we Igj^wili be, of a "firm and 






rather casually among the other advantages 
—and further, shall never be tired or ill. 
As firewood, however } this miraculous vege- 
table would seem to 'be a failure, as it is 
guaranteed not to burn* and for that reason 
i^ especially recommended for the construc- 
tion of fortresses— and musical instruments. 
A specimen is illustrated — a young one, 
apparently^ with exactly thirty-six leaves, 
as supplied by the nurseryman in a portable 
shallow tub, and fitted with serpent complete 
—in this particular case a female specimen- 
all in working order to tempt. 

To be dune first with the vegetables of our 
selection we now contemplate the Mandragora, 
or Mandrake (Fig. 2). Here we come upon a 
medley of fact and fiction, for the mandr agora 
is a real plant, and was much used in ancient 
times as a narcotic ; aho, we are told in 
Bartholormeus 1 version , X " smyteth of and 
destroyeth swellynge of the body/ 3 and 
M withstandyth venome by tying. n But the 
chief wonder of the mandrake was its root^ 
" somedck shape as a man," Further, 
" hereof is two maner of kyndes, the one is 
female and is lyke in leaves to Letuse and 
beareth appels. The other is male and hath 
leaves lyke to the bete, as Isidore sayth. 1 ' 
So, on the authority of Isidore, we perceive 
the specimen in the illustration to be a female 
mandrake, with L+ appels " and leaves like 
the " Letuse*' T Otherwise the be wild .red 
spectator might guess at some prehistoric 

forerunner of Mile. Gaby Deslys, with the 
character is; ic head-dress made familiar by 
the hoardings. As a fact, the root of the 
mandrake presents just about as mueh 
resemblance to a human being, and just as 
little , as that of the humble carrot. Both 
are apt to grow forked on occasion, and the 
resulting (i legs " account for the story. 

And now for the zoological wonders. 
First, " the Mermayden hyghte Sirena:' 
This is a " see-beast e wondcrly shape," as any- 
body may see from the picture (Hg, 3). As a 
matter of fact, the mermaid is plainly htrself 
wondering a little at her shape, and regards 
one of her two tails with a doubtful eye. 
One tail, she is probably reflecting, she could 
understand and even put up wilh, in default 
of anything more satisfactory ; hut two tails 
only leads to confusion and defeeti%'e steering. 
Or it may be that the defective steering has 
already caused the lady to bang her head 
against the rock seen in the foreground, and 
the tails are blaming each other, so that she 
is doubtful which to slap. Plainly she is 
most suspicious of her right tail, which she 
has probably caught deceiving her before. 
As for the personal habits of mermaids when 
not absorbed in the cares incidental to double- 
t a Lie (Hess, it is sufficient to observe that 
11 one of them syngeth with voyce, and a 
nother with a pype, and the thyrde with an 
harpe, and they pleasen so shyprnen with 
lykness of song that they drawe them to 
peryl and to shyprecke." 

With Chapter XXL we overtake our old 
friend the cockatrice, Si hyghte Basiliscus in 
Gresse and Regulus in latyn." Regulus, 


UNIWftlWI^OfWKtllfflW" 1 ' 1 - ■**■ 








* ^^9 if 

: -i^. jl& I 





or little king j is the name given him because Bartholomews' spelling, and Charles Dickens 
he is a tyrant to all serpents; u and they only slightly adapted it for Cousin F«nix. We 

W—k J-k. J-k -V% J-k m-\ * jr. M -J A j-m +-+ Jm J-J J*k. ■«■ *■> iU A m. 4- l-i A ■*■ «- ■»- -k. 1-u — * > ■ ■■> A 1 AaV V«4 ^ l"k. J"b 4 + Iv ■ i~l ' ' l~* V I ^ #~l j^i " ' * I 1 « I ■ J\ t Vk. 4 r*. *" -"^ ^TL ■ k * t fcBk 

heene aferde and flee when they se hym j 
for he sketh them with his smelle and with 
hk brethe." On the whole the cockatrice 
is a very terrible little creature ; for the 
mere sight of him kills most things uUfcl his 
size is merely 1S half a fote long," From the 
illustration (Fig. 4), indeed, one would judge 
him nothing but a rat-tai!ed bantam, with a 
few human eyes to ornament his chest ; 
yet he slays *' al thyng that hath lyfe with 
brethe and with syght." Nevertheless i, one 
thing is fatal to ihis creature— the bite of 
the weasch For the cockatrice " flcelh when 
he seeth the wcscl and the wesel purseweth 
and sleeth hym." On the other hand, to 
make all fair, the bite of the cockatrice is 
also fatal to the weasel, unless the weasel 
takes the obvious precaution of eating me 
before the enrgunter, in which case he is safe ; 
otherwise pop goes the 

" Fenix is a byrde," 
says our old friend 
Bartholomseus. More, 
" there is but one of 
that kynde in all the 
wyde world." We have 
corrupted the spelling 
of the name of this bird 
with p's and h*s and 
diphthongs, and in 
that form have given 
it to the Phoenix 
Insurance Office j but 
I like our old 



learn that this (l byrde " 4i lyveth three hun^ 
dred or fyve hundred yeares, when the whiche 
yeares ben passed she seleth her own defaute 
and febleness and maketh a nest of ryghte 
swete smellynge styckes that ben full drye, 
and in sommer when the westerne wynde 
bioweth the stickes and the neste ben sette on 
fyre with brennynge heate of the sonne and 
brennyth stronglye ; then this byrde fenix 
cometh wylfully into the brennynge neste 
and is there hrent to ashes among these 
brennynge styckes* And within three daies 
a lvttel worme is gendred of the ashes and 
wcxeth Iyttel and lvttel, and taketh feathers, 
and is shape and tourned to a birde," 

And so the ** fenix " arises from its ashes, 
after the cheerful blaze depicted in the illus- 
trationj wherein the greater part of the 
11 byrde ** has already disappeared among the 

crackling logs and 
little more than the 
beak remains to peck 
playfully at the flames 

(*%■ 5). 

The two -headed 

snake makes a short 
but pleasant chapter. 
" Anf i bena " is its 
name, and it wears a 
head at each end, as 
we perceive from the 
picture, where the 
intelligent creature is 
seen in the act of tying 
i'tMllp- M into a reef- 



FIG r 


knot (Fig, 6). Eroni the text we learn that 
one of the advantages of its peculiarity is 
that the heads take it in turn to sleep, each 
leaving the other on watch ; and it would seem 
that thb snake must have many opportuni- 
ties of amusing itself beyond making reef- 
knots and cat's-cradles ; it would seem, for , 
instance, to be the only beast capable of 
having a tug~of-war all by itself. 

The musk-deer appears disguised as the 
Musquelibet— ** of the greatnes of a goate," 
This animal, it seems, suffers from a con- 
venient abscess or boil which it rubs against 

a tree till it breaks^ when the required musk 
exudes. This triumph is made visible in the 
illustration by the ingenious expedient of 
leaving out the tree, which otherwise would 
obstruct the view (Fig, 7). 

41 The serpent es called Jacules are like to 
byrdes. They watch from trees and when 
they see any beast e come toward them 
they r spring and hunch themselves upon 
it and kill it. And for this reason are they 
named and called jaculi, for they throwe 
themselves and lance just like a dart.' ? 
Nothing can withstand the jacule 3 it would 
seem, and nothing can kill it except one other 
serpent not clearly indicated by name ; and 
even then the jacule ** dieth without having felt 
any pain ' * ; which seems unfair, to say the least 
of it. The picture( Fig, 8) offers many dramatic 




1 sT^*" .. * 



r , .^ 

Bjt p w/M^ 


J ^_^^fc!y^j?^fjjjr r 



PSf n 

B "^ •*"^S#Q*JJJ^ 




fig. 9.- 




suggestions, though they are not precise. 
It seems clear that the jacule on the tree is 
about to M lance 3J at the human victim 
resting at the foot, and perhaps it serves 
the latter right for seeking .shelter from such 
a hopeless stump. But il is not clear whether 
the slumbering \ictim is a snake-charmer 
in company with his stock, or the object of 
a general rush of snakes and jaculi in which 
the snakes are getting first snack* Or is 
the sleeper confident in the protection of 
tame specimens of the particular serpent 
48 by which the beast dieth " ? 

The chief figure in our next illustration (Fig. 
9) is nothing but our familiar friend the swan, 
though from mere appearances one would 
never jurew^,;.! j»\«,wm1wd the text in 




vain for some hint as to 
why the swan has tied 
his neck in a knot, and 
am reduced to the con- 
jecture that the artist 
after so generous an 
allowance of leg, found 
insufficient room for a 
corresponding length of 
neck at full stretch, and 
so gathered it up in a 
knot, and compensated 
the offended bird by a 
lavish present of beak — 
about a stork's allow- 
ance. The chapter deals, 
however j not so much 
with the swan as with 
the me r tin , which is said 
to attack the swan in 
companies of four from 
different quart ers 3 and so distract its atten- 
tion that it falls an easy prey to the hunters. 
Possibly it ties itself in a knot in sheer agony 
of embarrassment. 

But the chapter on the dolphin leaves 
nothing to conjecture. The dolphin is called 
" the brother of man " for the very charming 
reason that *' it resembleth not in any wave 
to the habits of man/' The picture of a pair 
of dolphins seems to confirm thLs (Fig. 10). 
The creature "'hath his eyes in his back and 
hys mouthe in the parte opposite." So that 
what we at first take to be a breast-pocket 
on the lady dolphin, 
with a neatly folded 
pocket - handkerchief 
showing from it, is 
nothing but her 
mouth, after alb 
There is a great vague- 
ness about the faces, 
but the improved 
positions of the eyes 
and mouth account 
for a deal of that, and 
the text explains the 
rest " They have no 
earesj but in place 
thereof narrow holes. 
They have no vestyge 
of smellyne butnever- 
thelesse they scent and 
smell moste wisely, 
They slepen on the 
waters so that one may 
heare them snore." 
Here, however, in the 
picture, rest is over 







and recreation is in hand 
the happy couple being 
sketched in the perform- 
ance of a familiar figure 
in Sir Roger de Coverley. 
AH sorts of parts of 
the dolphin, melted or 
ground or burnt as the 
case may be, are good 
for all manner of sick- 
nesses. But chiefly a 
dolphin's tooth, " hung 
and tyed to the neck of 
a per son, re moves doubts 
and sudden fears " 
Obviously a n y b o d y 
perusing this Natural 
History should wear a 
dolphin's tooth. 

The M sea- monke " 
would seem to be a 
fairly near relation to the dolphin, and still 
a little nearer to the merman. " These fish 
are called sea-monkes because they have the 
head in the manner of a monke freshly 
shaven. ... This monster attracteth men 
joumynge on the shore of the see, and 
playeth before them in the waves. And if 
he seeth any man that murvclleth approach 
him, he also eomyth neare and , . . he 
seizeth the man and drawcth hyrn to the 
very depthes of the see, and feasts in this 
manner and gluts himself with hLs fleshe," 
Here in the picture (Fig. n) you may see the 

wily sea-monk tipping 
the wink to the unsus- 
pecl ing beach -stroller, 
while a winged griffin 
with a saw - topped 
horn gambols on the 
nearer waters to im- 
part an air of safety 
and innocence to the 

I'lupK' of small 
imagination would 
scarcely guess the next 
figure (l ig, 12) to be 
that of a hippopota- 
mus. That is what it 
is 3 however, and by 
the text we learn that 
it is 4i a beaste born 
on landj but it is 
equally powerful in 
water/' There seems 
a touch of disappoint- 
ment in the announce- 

YERSITYOFMIUTTCfttf 13 * "it is not 



any larger than the 
elephant/ 1 But then 
11 it hath the beake 
turned back behind ,] 
— a piece of informa- 
tion precious to those 
who have all their 
lives been ignorant 
of where the hippo- 
p o t a rn u s kept his 
beak. Its teeth^ 
m o reov e r, a r e 
crooked, and " at 
night it feedeth on 
corn to which almost 
like backward it 
goeth/ J as needs must 
ananimalwith its beak 
"turned back be- 
hind," But we are left 
guessing as to how to 
reconcile the illustra- 
tion with the state- 
ment that the hippopo- 
tamus " has no face.' 1 

The next picture is that of the Zit iron (Fig. 
13), Any intelligent person will see at once 
that it is just the sort of animal that would 
be called a zitiron, and it could be only the 
superficial observer who might take it for a 
mermaid at a fancy-dress hall. 'The zitiron 
is " a monster whych the vulgar hyght 
Chevalier or Knyghte. It is great and very 
strange in the forward partes and can-yet h 
almoste the forme of an armed knyghte, and 
the head also is as if it were armed with an 
helmet, of skinne wrinkled and harde and 



verve firme. To hys 
nccke h a n g e t h a 
shelde, wide and lar^e 
and with holes therein. 
So that , . . in the 
manner of warrioures 
he can defend hym- 
selfe agynst the 
blows. * . * He has 
m o s t e marvellous 
strong arms, his fiste 
as it were gloved and 
armed with wych he 
strykcth full power- 
fully. From whych 
it cometh that only 
with much difficulty 
may the man be 
taken. And if he may 
only be taken with 
great difficulty, more 
difficult still is to kyll 
him if not with ham- 
mers/' So that any 
person going about 
in perpetual fear of zit irons may be recom- 
mended to keep the domestic coal-hammer 
in his tail-pocket. 

Since this little string of quaint pictures 
and disrespectful remarks seems to need the 
ornament of a tail-piece, here is one repre? 
sen ting our old friend from the " Arabian 
Nights"— the roc (Fig. 14). This pleasant bird, 
for whose nest no tree is big enough, is here 
shown, with discomfort and dissatisfaction 
plain on its face, taking the measurement of 
a wood far too small for the purpose. 

Vol- ii.-«X 

gy^r.^ ! 

FIO. 14.— TH£ , 6kEtJn*l>ir , 3+lSosiE NEST NO 1KEE 





Illustrated by F. Gillett, R.I. 

HILE she was yet dressing 
she had heard the soft pad 
of slippers on the narrow 
landing outside her room 
and the shuffle of papers; 
then, heralded by a single 
knock, the scrape and crackle 
of a paper being pushed under her door. It 
was in this fashion that the Maison Mardel 
presented its weekly bills to its guests. 

" Merci I " she called, aloud, leaving her 
dressing to go and pick up the paper. A 
pant from without answered her, and the 
slipper thudded away. 

Standing by the door, with arms and 
shoulders bare, she unfolded the document, 
a long sheet with a printed column of items 
and large, inky figures in francs and centimes 
written against them, and down in the right- 
hand corner the dramatic climax of the 
total. It was N the total that interested 
Annette Kelly. 

" H'm ! " It was something between a 
gasp and a sigh. " They're making the most 
of me while I last," said Annette, aloud. 

Her purse was under her pillow, an old and 
baggy affair of shagreen, whose torn lining 
had to be explored with a forefinger for the 
coins it swallowed. She emptied it now 
upon the bed. The light of a Paris summer 
morning, golden and serene, flowed in at the 
window, visiting the poverty of the little 
room with its barren benediction. She 
was a slender girl of some three-and-twenty 
years, with hair and eyes of a sombre brown ; 
six weeks of searching for employment in 
Paris and economizing in food, of spurring 
herself each morning to the tone of hope and 
resolution, of returning each evening foot- 
sore and dispirited, had a little blanched 
and touched with tenseness a face in which 
there yet lingered some of the soft contours 
of childhood. 

She sat down beside the money on the 
bed, her ankles crossed below her petticoat ; 

Copyright, 1915, 

her accounts were made up. After paying 
the bill and bestowing one franc in the 
unavoidable tip, there would remain to her 
exactly eight francs for her whple resources. 
It was the edge of the precipice at last. It 
was that precipice, overhanging depths 
unseen and terrible, which she was contem- 
plating as she sat, her feet swinging gently 
in the rhythm of meditation, her face serious 
and quiet. For six weeks she had seen it 
afar off ; now it was at hand and immediate. 

" Well," said Annette, slowly ; she had 
already the habit of talking aloud to herself 
which comes to lonely people. She paused- 
" It just means that to-day I've got to get; 
some work. I've got to." 

She rose, forcing herself to be brisk and 
energetic. The Journal, with its advertise- 
ments of work to be had for the asking, had 
come to her door with the glass of milk and 
the roll which formed her breakfast, and she 
had already made a selection of its more 
humble possibilities. She ran them over in 
her mind as she finished dressing. Two 
offices required typists ; she would go to 
both. A cashier in a shop and an English 
governess were wanted. " Why shouldn't 
I be a governess ? " said Annette. And 
finally, somebody in the Rue St. Honore 
required a young lady of good figure and 
pleasant manners for " reception." There 
were others, too, but it was upon these five 
that Annette decided to concentrate. 

She put on her hat, took her money and 
her Journal, and turned to the door. A 
curious impulse checked her there, and she 
came back to the mirror that hung above 
her dressing-table. 

u Let's have a look at you ! " said Annette 
to the reflection that confronted her. 

She stood, examining it seriously. It 
was, she thought, quite presentable ; a 
trim, quiet figure of a girl who might reason- 
ably ask work and a wage ; she could not 
find anyrliirjg in it to account for those six 

by Perceval Gibbon. 



weeks of refusals. She perked her chin and 
forced her face to look assured and spirited, 
watching the result in the mirror. 

" Ye-es," she said, at last, and nodded to 
the reflection. " You'll have to do ; but I 
wish — I wish you hadn't got that sort of 
doomed look. Good-bye, old girl ! " 

At the foot of the stairs, in the open door 
of that room which was labelled the bureau, 
where a bed and a bird-cage and a smell of 
food kept company with the roll-top desk, 
stood the patronne, Mme. Mardel. She 
moved a little forth into the passage as 
Annette approached. 

" Good morning, mademoiselle. Again a 
charming day ! " 

She was a large woman, grossly fleshy, 
with clothes that strained to creaking-point 
about her body, and gaped at the fastenings. 
Her vast face, under her irreproachably neat 
hair — the hair of a Parisienne — was swarthy 
and plethoric, with the jowl of a bulldog and 
eyes tiny and bright. Annette knew her for 
an artist in " extras/' a vampire that had 
sucked her purse lean with deft overcharges, 
a creature without mercy or morals. But 
the daily irony of her greeting had the grace, 
the cordial inflexion, of a piece of distinguished 

" Charming," agreed Annette. She pro- 
duced the bill. u I may as well pay this 
now," she suggested. 

Madame's chill and lively eyes were 
watching her face, estimating her solvency 
in the light of madame's long experience of 
misfortune and despair. She shrugged a 
huge shoulder deprecatingly. 

" There is no hurry," she said. She always 
said that. " Still, since mademoiselle is 
here " 

Annette followed her into the bureau, 
that dim-lighted sanctuary of madame's 
real life. Below the half-raised blind in the 
window the canaries in their cage rustled 
and bickered ; unwashed plates were crowded 
on the table ; the big, unmade bed added 
a flavour of its own to the atmosphere. 
Madame eased herself/ panting, into the 
chair before the desk, revealing the great 
rounded expanse of her back with its row of 
straining buttons and lozenge-shaped revela- 
tions of underwear. With the businesslike 
deliberation of a person who transacts a 
serious affair with due seriousness, she 
spread the bill before her, smoothing it out 
with a practised wipe of the hand, took 
her rubber stamp from the saucer in 
which it lay, inked it on the oad — and 

Annette had been watching her, fascinated 
by that great methodical rhythm of move- 
ment, but at the pause she started, fished the 
required coins from the old purse, and laid 
them at madame's elbow. 

" Merciy mademoiselle," said madame, and 
then, and not till then, the stamp descended 
upon the paper. A flick with a scratchy pen 
completed the receipt, and madame turned 
awkwardly in the embrace of her chair to 
hand it to Annette with her weekly smile. 
The ritual was accomplished. 

" Good morning, mademoiselle, Thank 
you ; good luck." » 

The mirthless smile discounted the words ; 
the cold, avid eyes were busy and suspicious. 
Annette let them stare their fill while she 
folded the paper and tucked it into the 
purse ; she l^d had six weeks of training in 
the art of preserving a cheerful countenance. 
Then :— 

" Good morning, madame," she smiled 
with her gay little nod, and reached the door 
in good order. 

There was still Aristide, the lame man-of- 
all-work, who absorbed a weekly franc and 
never concealed his contempt of the amount. 
He was waiting on the steps, leaning on a 
broom, when she came out. 

Her way lay down hill. The first of her 
advertisements gave an address at the foot 
of the Rue Lafayette ; and soon the 
stimulus of the thronged streets, the mere 
neighbourhood of folk who moved briskly 
and with purpose, re-strung her slackened 
nerves, and she was again ready for the 
battle. And as she went her lips moved. 

" Mind, now ! " she was telling herself. 
" To-day's the end — the very end. You've 
got to get work to-day ! " 

The address in the Rue Lafayette turned 
out to be that of a firm of house and estate 
agents ; it was upon the first floor and showed 
to the landing four ground-glass door's, of 
which three were lettered " Private," while 
the fourth displayed an invitation to enter 
without knocking. 

" Now ! " she said, with a deep breath, and 
pushed open the fourth door. 

Within was an office divided by a counter, 
and behind the counter desks and the various 
apparatus of business. The desks were 
unoccupied ; the only person present was a 
thin, pretty girl seated before a typewriter. 
She looked up at Annette across the counter ; 
her face showed patches of too bright a red 
on the cheekbones. 

" Good morning,'^ began Annette, with 
determined briskness. " I've come " 



The girl smiled. " Typist ? " she in^ 

" Yes/' said Annette. " The advertise- 
ment -" She stopped ; the girl was still 

smiling, but in a manner of deprecating and 
infinitely gentle regret. Annette stared at 
her, feeling within again that rising chill of 
disappointment with which she was already 
so familiar. " You mean/' she stammered, 
awkwardly — " you mean — you've got the 
place ? " 

The thin girl spread her hands apart in a 
little French gesture of conciliation. 

" Ten minutes ago," she answered. " There 
is no one here yet but the manager, and I was 
waiting at the door when he arrived." 

" Thank you/' said Annette, faintly. The 
thin girl, still regarding her with big shadowy 
eyes, suddenly put a hand to her bosom and 
coughed. The neat, big office beyond the 
bar of the polished counter was unbearably 
pleasant to look at ; one could have been so 
happily busy at one's place between those 
tidy desks. A sharp bell rang from an inner 
office ; the thin girl rose. The hectic on her 
cheeks burned brighter. 

"I must go," she said, hurriedly. "He 
wants me ; I hope you will have good luck." 

The sunlight without had lost some of ks 
quality when Annette came forth to the 
street again ; it no longer warmed her to 
optimism. She stood for some moments in 
the doorway of the building, letting her de- 
pression and discouragement have their way 
with her. 

" If only I might cry a bit," she reflected. 
" That would help a little. But I mustn't 
even do that ! " 

She had to prod herself into fresh briskness 
with the sense of her need, that to-day was 
the end. She sighed, jerked her chin up, 
set her small face into the shape of resolute 
cheerfulness, and set forth again in the 
direction of the second vacancy for a typist. 

Here, for a while, hope burned high. The 
office was that of a firm of thriving wine- 
exporters, and the post had not yet been 
filled. The partner into whose office she 
penetrated by virtue of her sheer determina- 
tion to see someone in authority was a stout, 
ruddy Marseillais, speaking French in the 
full-throated, Southern fashion ; he was 
kindly and cheery, with broad vermilion 
lips asmile through his beard. 

" Yes, we want a typist," he admitted ; 

" but I'm afraid " His amiable, brown 

eyes scrutinized her with manifest doubt. 
" You have references ? " he inquired. 

Yes, Annette had references. She had only 

lost her last situation when her employer 
went bankrupt ; the testimonial she pro- 
duced spoke well of her in every sense. She 
gave it him to read. But what — what was 
it in her that had inspired that look of doubt, 
that look she had seen so often before in the 
eyes of possible employers ? 

" Yes, it is very good." He handed the 
paper back to her, still surveying her and 
hesitating. " And you are accustomed to 
the — machine ? H'm ! " 

It was then that hope flared up strongly. 
He could not get out of it ; he must employ 
her now. Salary ? She would take what 
the firm offered. And still he continued to 
look at her with a hint of embarrassment in 
his regard. She felt she was trembling. 

" I'm afraid," he began again, but stopped 
at her involuntary little gasp and shifted 
uneasily in his chair. He was acutely un- 
comfortable. An idea came to him and he 
brightened. " Well, you can leave your 
address and we will write to you. Yes, we 
will write to you." 

And to-day was the end ! Annette stared 
at him. " When ? " she asked, shortly. 

The burly man reddened dully ; she had 
seen through his pretext for getting rid of 
her. " Oh, in a day or two/' he answered, 

Annette rose. She had turned pale, but 
she was quite calm and self-possessed. 

" I— I hoped to get work to-day," she 
said. " In fact, I must find it to-day. But 
will you at least tell me why you won't give 
me the place ? " 

The big man's cheery face began to frown. 
He was being forced to fall back on his right 
to employ or not to employ whom he pleased 
without giving reasons. Annette watched 
him, and before he could speak she went on 

" I'm not complaining," she said. Her 
voice was even and very low. u But there's 
something wrong with me, Isn't there ? I 
saw how you looked at me at first. Well, it 
wouldn't cost you anything, and it would 
help me a lot, if you'd just tell me what it 
is that's wrong. You see, nobody will have 
me, and it's getting rather — rather desperate. 
So if you'd just tell me, perhaps I could alter 
something and have a chance at last." 

Her serious eyes, the pallor of her face, 
and the level tones of her voice held him 
like a hand on his throat. He was a man 
with the cordial nature of his race, prone to 
an easy kindliness, who would have suffered 
almost any ilJ rather than feel himself guil y 
of a cruelty. But how could he speak to her 






of the true reason for refusing her — the son 
in the business, the avid young dibauchi 
whose victims were girls in the firm's employ ? 

" If you'd just fell me what it is I wouldn't 
bother you any more, and it might make all 
the difference to me," Annette was saying. 

She saw him redden and shift sharply in 
his chair ; an impulse of his ardent blood was 
spurring him to give her the work she needed 
and, then to so deal with his son that he 
would never dare lift his eyes to her. But 
the instinct of caution developed in business 
came to damp that dangerous warmth. 

" Mademoiselle/' he returned her look 
gravely and honestly, " upon my word I can 
see nothing whatever wrong with you — 
nothing whatever.* 1 

" Then," began Annette, " why won't 
you ? " 

He stopped her with an upraised hand. 
" I am going to tell you," he said. " There 
is a rule in this office, and behind the rule are 
good and sufficient reasons, that we do not 
take into our employ women who are still 
young — and pretty." 

She heard him with no change of her rigid 
countenance. She understood, of course ; 
she had known in her time what it was to be 
persecuted. She would have liked to tell 
him that she was well able to take care of 
herself, but she recalled her promise not to 
bother him further. 

She sighed, buttoning her glove " It's a 
pity," she said, unhappily, " because — I 
really am a good typist." 

" I am sure of it," he agreed. " I infinitely 
regret, but — fa y est 1 " 

She raised her head. " Well, thank you 
for telling me, at any rate," she said. " Good 
morning, monsieur." 

" Good morning, mademoiselle," he replied, 
and held open the door for her to pass out. 

Once more the street and the sunshine and 
the hurry of passing strangers, each pressing 
by about his or her concerns. Again she 
stood a little while in the doorway, regarding 
the thronged urgency that surged in spate 
between the high handsome buildings, every 
unit of it wearing the air of being bound 
towards some place where it was needed, 
while she alone was unwanted. 

" I think," considered Annette, " that I 
ought to have some coffee or something, 
since it's the — last — day." 

She looked down along the street ; not far 
away the awning of a caf£ showed red and 
white above the sidewalk. 

She took a chair in the back row of seats 
behind a small iron table, slackening her 

muscles and leaning back, making the mere 
act of sitting down yield her her money's 
worth. The shadow of the awning turned 
the day to a benign coolness ; there was a 
sense of privilege in being thus at rest in the 
very street, at the elbow of its passers-by. 
A waiter brought the caji au lait which she 
ordered and set it on the table before her. 
The cost was half a franc ; she gave him 
a franc, bade him keep the change, and 
was rewarded with half a smile, half a 
bow, and a " Merci beaucoup, matatne ! " 
which in themselves were a balm to her 
spirit, bruised by insult and failure. The 
coffee was hot ; its fragrance gushed up from 
her cup ; since her last situation had failed 
her, she was tasting for the first time food 
that was appetizing and dainty. 

She lifted the cup. " A short life and a 
merry one," she murmured, toasting herself 
before she drank. 

Six francs remained to her, and there were 
yet three employers to visit. The lady in 
need of a governess and the shop which 
required a cashier were at opposite ends of 
Paris ; the establishment which desired a 
young lady for " reception " was between 
the two. Annette, surveying the field, 
decided to reserve the " reception " to the 
last. She finished her coffee, flavouring to 
the last drop the warm stimulation of it ; 
then, having built up again her hopeful 
mood, she set out anew. 

It was three hours later, towards two 
o'clock in the afternoon, that she came on 
foot, slowly, along the Rue St. Honore, 
seeking the establishment which had pro- 
claimed in the Journal its desire to employ, 
for purposes of " reception," a young lady 
of good figure and pleasant manners. She 
had discovered, at the cost of one of her 
remaining francs for omnibus fares, that a 
fifty-franc a month governess must possess 
certificates, that governessing is a skilled 
trade overcrowded by women of the most 
various and remarkable talents. At the shop 
that advertised for a cashier a shop-walker 
had glanced at her over his shoulder for an 
instant, snapped out that the place was 
filled, and walked away. 

The name she sought appeared across the 
way, lettered upon a row of first-floor 
windows ; it was a photographer's. 

" Now ! " said Annette. " The end — this 
is the end ! " 

A thrill touched her as she went up the 
broad stairway of the building ; the crucial 
thing was at hand. roi The morning had been 
bad ; but at ea,ch failure there had still been 



a possibility - ahead. Now, there was only 
this and nothing beyond. 

A spacious landing, carpeted, and lit by 
the tall church- windows of the staircase, 
great double doors with a brass plate, and a 
dim, indoor sense pervading all the place ! 
Here, evidently, the sharp corners of com- 
merce were rounded off ; its acolytes must be 
engaging female figures with affable manners. 

Annette's finger on the bronze bell-push 
evoked a man servant in livery, with a 
waistcoat of horizontal yellow-and-black 
stripes like a wasp, and a smooth, subtle, 
still face. He pulled open one wing of the 
door and stood aside to let her pass in, 
gazing at her with demure eyes in whose 
veiled suggestion there was something satiric. 
Annette stepped past him at once. 

4k There is an advertisement in the Journal 
lor a young lady/' she said. " I have come 
to apply for the post." 

The smooth man-servant lowered his 
head in a nod that was just not a bow, and 
closed the tall door. 

4i Yes/' he said. 4t If mademoiselle will 
give herself the trouble to be seated, I will 
inform the master." 

The post was not filled, then. Annette 
sat down, let the wasp-hued flunkey pass out 
of sight, and looked round at the room in 
which she found herself. It was here, 
evidently, that the function of " reception " 
was accomplished. The man-servant ad- 
mitted the client ; one rose from ones place 
at the little inlaid desk in the alcove and 
rustled forward across the gleaming parquet, 
with pleased and deferential alacrity, to bid 
monsieur or madame welcome, to offer a 
chair and the incense of one's interest and 
delight in service. One added oneself to 
the quality of the big, still apartment, with 
its antique furniture, its celebrities and 
notorieties pictured upon its walls, its great 
chandelier, a-shiver with glass lustres, hanging 
overhead like an aerial iceberg. No noises 
entered from the street ; here, the business 
of being photographed was magnified to a 
solemnity ; one drugged one's victim with 
pomp before leading him to the camera. 

M I could do it," thought Annette. 44 I'm 
sure I could do it. I could fit into all this 
like a — like a snail into a shell. I'd want 
shoes that didn't slide on the parquet ; and 
then — oh, if only this comes off ! " 

A small noise behind her made her turn 
quickly. The door by which the footman 
had departed was concealed by a portiere of 
heavy velvet ; a hand had moved it aside 
and a face was looking round the edge of it 

at her. As she turned, the owner of it came 
forward into the room, and she rose. 

44 Be seated, be seated ! " protested the 
new-c.omer in a high, emasculate voice, and 
she sat down again obediently upon the 
little spindle-legged Empire settee from 
which she had risen. 

44 And you have come in consequence of 
the advertisement ? " said the man, with a 
little giggle, 44 Yes, yes ! We will see, 
then ! " 

He stood in front of her, half-way across 
the room, staring at her. He was a man 
somewhere in the later thirties, wearing the 
velvet jacket, the cascading necktie, the 
throat - revealing collar, and the overlong 
hair which the conventions of the theatre 
have established as the livery of the artist. 
The details of this grotesque foppery pre- 
sented themselves to Annette only vaguely ; 
it was at the man himself, as he straddled in 
the middle of the polished floor, staring at 
her, that she gazed with a startled attention 
— a face like the feeble and idiot countenance 
of an old sheep, with the same flattened 
length of nose and the same weakly demoniac 
touch in the curve and slack hang of the wide 
mouth. It was not that he was merely ugly 
or queer to the view ; it seemed to Annette 
that she was suddenly in the presence of 
something monstrous and out of the course 
of Nature. His eyes, narrow and seemingly 
colourless, regarded her with a fatuous 

She flushed and moved in her seat under 
his long scrutiny. The creature sighed. 

44 Yes," he said, always in the same high, 
dead voice. 44 You satisfy the eye, made- 
moiselle. For me, that is already much, 
since it is as an artist that I consider you 
first. And your age ? " 

She told him. He asked further questions— 
of her previous employment, her nationality, 
and so forth, putting them perfunctorily as 
though they were matters of no moment, 
and never removing his narrow eyes from her 
face. Then, with short, sliding steps he 
came across the parnuet and sat down 
beside her on the Empire settee. 

Annette backed to the end of it and sat 
defensively on the edge, facing the strange 
being. He, crossing his thin legs, leaned 
with an arm extended along the back of the 
settee and his long, large - knuckled hand 
hanging limp. His sheep's face lay over on 
his shoulder towards her ; in that proximity 
its quality of feeble grotesqueness was 
enhanced. Itjrojftlftke sitting in talk with a 




" Curiouser and curiouser ! " quoted 
Annette to herself. " I ought to wake up 
next and find he really doesn't exist/ ' 

" Mademoiselle ! " The creature began to 
speak again. " You are the ninth who has 
come hither to-day seeking the post I have 
advertised. Some I rejected because they 
failed to conciliate my eye ; I cannot, you 
will understand, be tormented by a presence 
which jars my sense.' ' 

He paused to hear her agree. 

" And the others ? " inquired Annette. 

" A-ah ! " The strange being sighed. 
" The others — in each case, what a disap- 
pointment ! Girls — beautiful, of a person- 
ality subdued and harmonious, capable of 
taking their place in my environment without 
doing violence to its completeness, but lacking 
the plastic and responsive quality which the 
hand of the artist should find in his material. 
Resistant — they were resistant, mademoiselle, 
every one of them." 

" Silly of them," said Annette, briefly. 
She was meeting the secret stare of his half- 
closed eyes quite calmly now ; she was 
beginning to understand the furtive satire 
in the regard of the smooth footman who had 
•admitted each of those eight others in turn 
and seen their later departure. " What was 
it they wouldn't do ? " she inquired. 

"J)o ! " The limp hand flapped despair- 
ingly ; the thin voice ran shrill. " I required 
nothing of them. One enters ; I view her ; 
I seat myself at her side as I sit now with 
you ; I seek in talk to explore her resources 
of sentiment, of temperament, of sympathy. 
Perhaps I take her hand " — as though to 
illustrate the recital, his long hand dropped 
suddenly and seized hers. He ceased to 
talk, surveying her with a scared shrewdness. 

Annette smiled, letting her hand lie where 
it was. She was not in the least afraid ; 
she had forgotten ior the moment the barren- 
ness of the streets that awaited her outside 
and the fact that she had come to the end of 
her hopes. 

"And they objected to that?" she 
inquired, sweetly. 

. " Ah, but you " He was making 

ready to hitch closer along the seat and she 
>*as prepared for him. 

* ' V4 Oh; Fd let vou hold them both, if that 
were all," she replied. " But — it isn t all, is 
it ? " 

She smiled again at the perplexity in his 
face ; his hands slackened and withdrew 
slowly. " You haven't told me what salary 
you are offering ? " she reminded him. 

" Mademoiselle, vou too ? " 

She nodded. " Me, too," she answered, 
and rose. The man on the settee groaned 
and heaved his shoulders theatrically ; she 
stood viewing in quiet curiosity that counten- 
ance of impotent vileness. Other failures 
had left her with a sense of defencelessness 
in a world so largely populated by men who 
glanced up from their desks to refuse her plea 
for work. But now she had resources of 
power over fate and circumstance ; the 
streets, the night, the river, whatever of fear 
and destruction the future held, could neither 
daunt nor compel her. She could go out to 
meet them free and victorious. 

" Mademoiselle ! " the man on the settee 
bleated at her. 

She shook her head at him. It was not 
worth while to speak. She went to the door 
and opened it for herself ; the smooth man- 
servant was deprived of the spectacle of her 

She went slowly down the wide stairs. 
" Nine of us," she was thinking. " Nine 
girls, and not one of us was — what did he 
call it ?— plastic. I'm not really alope in 
the world, after all." 

But it was very like being alone in the 
world to go slowly, with tired feet, along the 
perspectives of the streets, to turn- corners 
aimlessly, to wander on with no destination 
or purpose. There 'was yet money in the 
old purse, a single, broad, five-franc piece ; 
it would linger out her troubles for tier till 
to-morrow. She would need to eat, and her 
room at Madame Mardel's would come to 
three francs ; she did not mean to occupy it 
any longer than she could pay for it. And 
then the morning would find her. penniless 
in actuality. 

Her last turning brought her out to the 
arches of the Rue de Rivoli ; across the way 
the trees of the Tuileries gardens lifted their 
green to the afternoon sunlight. She hesitated, 
then crossed the wide road towards the 
gardens, her thoughts still hovering about the 
five-franc piece. 

" It's a case for riotous living," she told 
herself, as she passed into the smooth paths 
beneath the trees. " Five francs' worth of 
real dinners, or something like that. Only — 
I'm not feeling very riotous just now." 

What she felt was that the situation had 
to be looked at, but that looking at it could 
not improve it. Things had come to an end ; 
food to eat, a bed to sleep in, the mere bare 
essentials of life had ceased, and she had not 
an idea of what came next, how one entered 
upon the process of starving to death in the 
streets. Passers-by, strolling under the trees, 







'in. i ■ ; 


the imoAo xAk'AJ^fcVo the p ^(gflmWTTOF ftWfifSft N 



glanced at her as she passed them, pre- 
occupied and unseeing, a neat, comely little 
figure of a girl in her quiet clothes, with her 
still, composed face. She went slowly ; there 
was a seat which she knew of farther on, 
overshadowed by a lime tree, where she meant 
to rest and put her thoughts in order ; but 
already at the back of her mind there had 
risen, vague as night, oppressive as pain, 
tainting her disquiet with its presence, the 
hint of a consciousness that, after all, one 
does not starve to death — pas si bite I — one 
takies a shorter way. 

A lean youth, with a black cotton cap 
pulled forward over one eye, who had been 
lurking near, saw the jerk with which she 
lifted her head as that black inspiration was 
clear to her, and the sudden coolness and 
courage of her face, and moved away un- 

4 * Ye-es," said Annette, slowly. " Ye-es ! 
And now — oh ! " 

A bend in the path had brought her 
suddenly to the seat under the lime tree; 
she was within a couple of paces of it before 
she perceived that it had already its occupant 
—tb6 Jong figure of a young man, who 
sprjt*(led back with his face upturned to the 
daVy i*pd slumbered with all that disordered 
and ^nbeautiful abandon which goes with 
daylight ste^p. His head had fallen over on 
one : shoulder; his hiouth was open; his 
hands, fjriniy and large, showed half-shut in 
his-Mp. * There was a staring patch of black 
sticking-plaster at the side of his chin; his 
clothes, that were yet decent, showed stains 
here and there ; his face, young and 
slackened in sleep, was burned brick- red by 
exposure. The whole figure of him, sur- 
rendered to weariness in that unconscious 
and uncaring sprawl, seemed suddenly to 
answer her question — this was what happened 
next ; this was the end — unless x>ne found 
and took that shorter way. 

'* They walk till they can't walk any longer ; 
then they sleep on benches. I could never 
do that ! " 

She stood for some seconds longer, staring 
at the sleeping man. Resolution, bitter as 
grief, mounted in her like a tide. " No, it 
sha'n't come to that with me ! " she cried, 
inwardly* " Lounging with my mouth open 
for anyone to stare at ! No ! " 

She turned, head up, body erect, face set 
strongly, and walked away. Neither sheep- 
faced human grotesques in palatial offices 
nor all Paris and its civilization should make 
her other than she wished to be. She stepped 
out defiantly— and stopped short. 

The old purse was in her hand; through 
its flabby sides she could feel with her fingers 
the single five-franc piece which it yet con- 
tained. Somehow, that had to be disposed of 
or provided for ; five francs was a serious 
matter to Annette. She looked round ; the 
man in the seat was still sleeping. 

Treading quietly, she went back to him, 
taking the coin from her purse as she went. 
Upon his left side his coat pocket bulged 
open ; she could see that in it was a little wad 
of folded papers. " His testimonials— poor 
fellow ! " she breathed. Carefully she leaned 
forward and let the broad coin slip into the 
pocket among the papers. Then, with an 
end of a smile twisted into the set of her 
lips, she turned again and departed. Among 
jthe trees the lean youth in the black cotton 
cap watched her go. 

A day that culminates in sleep upon a bench 
in a public place is commonly a day that has 
begun badly and maintained its character. 
In this case it may be said to have begun 
soon after nine a.m., when a young man in 
worn tweed clothes and carrying a handker- 
chief pressed to his jaw stepped out from a 
taxi and into that drug-store which is nearest 
to the Gare de Lyon. The bald, bland 
chemist who presides there has a regular 
practice in the treatment of razor-cuts 
acquired through shaving in the train ; he 
looked up serenely across his glass-topped 

4i Good morning, monsieur/' he said. "'A 
little cut— yes ? " 

Young Raleigh gazed at him across the 

" No ! A thundering great gash ! " he 
answered with emphasis. " I want some- 
thing to patch it up with." 

" Certainly — certainly ! " The bald apo- 
thecary had the airs of a family physician ; 
he smiled soothingly. u We shall find some- 
thing. Let me now see the cut ! " 

Raleigh protruded his face across the soaps 
and the bottles of perfume, and the apothecary 
rose on tiptoe to scrutinize the wound. The 
razor had got home on the edge of the jaw, 
with a scraping cut that bled handsomely. 

" Ah ! " The bald man nodded, and 
sought a bottle. " A little of this " — he 
was damping a rag of lint with the contents 
of the bottle — "as a cleansing agent first. 
If monsieur will bend down a little — so— * — " 

Daintily, with precision and delicacy, he 
proceeded to apply the cleansing agent to 
the cut ; at the fust dab' the patient leapt 
back vyfjm \6gf;^}c]clam ati(|>£|-| |g^ |\| 



" Confound you ! " he cried. " That stuff 
burns like fire." 

44 It will pass in a moment/* soothed the 
chemist. " And now a little patch, and all 
will be well.' 1 

His idea of a suitable dressing was two 
inches of stiff and shiny black plaster that 
gripped at the skin like a barnacle and looked 
like a tragedy. Raleigh surveyed the effect 
of it in a showcase mirror gloomily. 

" I wonder you didn't put it in a sling 
while you were about it," he remarked, 
ungratefully. " People'll think I've been 
tryin' to cut my throat." 

" Monsieur should grow a beard," coun- 
selled the chemist, as he handed him his 

Raleigh grunted, disdaining retort, and 
passed forth to his waiting cab. The day 
had commenced inauspiciously. The night 
before, smoking his final cigarette in his 
upper berth in the wagon-lits, he had tempted 
Providence by laying out for himself a pro- 
gramme and a time schedule ; and it looked 
as if Providence had been unable to resist 
the temptation. The business of the firm 
in which he was junior partner had taken 
him to Zurich ; he had given himself a week's 
holiday in the mountains, and was now on his 
way back to London. The train was due 
to land him in Paris at half-past eight in 
the morning, and his plans were clear. First, 
a taxi to the Cafe de la Paix and breakfast 
there under the awning while the day ripened 
towards the hours of business ; then a small 
cigar and a stroll along the liveliness of the 
boulevard to the offices of the foundry com- 
pany, where a heart-to-heart talk with the 
manager would clear up several little matters 
which were giving trouble. Afterwards, a 
taxi across the river and a call upon the 
machine-tool people, get their report upon 
the new gear-steels, and return to the Gare 
du Nord in time to catch the two o clock 
train for Calais. 

He had settled the order of it to his satis- 
faction before he pulled the shade over 
the lamp and turned to sleep ; and then, 
next morning, he had gashed himself while 
shaving and the train was forty minutes late. 

" These clothes " — there was a narrow 
slip of mirror between the front windows of 
the taxi which reflected him, a section at a 
time — " these clothes 'ud pass," he con- 
sidered, gloomily, considering their worn and 
unbusinesslike quality. " But with this " — 
his fingers explored his chin — " folks'll think 
we only do business between sprees." 

The manager of the foundry company was 

a French engineer who had been trained 
in Pittsburg, a Frenchman of the new style, 
whose silky sweetness of manner was the mark 
of a steely tenacity of purpose. He had a 
little devilish black moustache, waxed at the 
points, like an earl of melodrama, and with 
it a narrow, cheerless smile that jeered into 
futility Raleigh's effort to handle the subject 
on a basis of easy good-fellowship. The heart- 
to-heart talk degenerated into a keen business 
controversy, involving the consultation of 
letter files ; it took more time than Raleigh 
had to spare, and in the end nothing was 

" You catch the early train to Lon- 
don ? " inquired the manager, amiably, 
when Raleigh was leaving. 

" Yes," replied Raleigh, warmly. " I'm 
going to get out of this while I've got my 
fare left." 

" Bon voyage" said the Frenchman, smil- 
ingly. " You will present my compliments 
to your father ? " 

" Not me," retorted Raleigh. " I'm not 
going to let him know I saw you." 

The machine-tool people to whom his 
next visit was due were established south of 
the river, a long drive from the boulevards. 
They were glad to receive him ; there was a 
difficulty with some of the new steels, and 
they took him into the shops that he might 
see and appreciate the matter for himself. 
In the end it was necessary for Raleigh to 
reset the big turret-lathe and demonstrate 
the manner of working, standing to the 
machine in his ancient tweed clothes — 
nobody offered him overalls — while the 
swift belting slatted at his elbow and frag- 
ments of shaved steel and a fine spray of oil 
welcomed him back to his trade. The good 
odour of metal, the engine-room smell, filled 
his nostrils ; he was doing the thing which 
he could do best ; it was not till it was 
finished that he looked at his watch and 
realized that the last item of his time-table 
had gone the way of the first, and he had 
missed the two o'clock train. 

He paid off his return cab in the Place de 
la Concorde, and stood doubtfully on the 
kerb watching it skate away into the traffic. 
His baggage had gone on by the two o'clock 
train ; he was committed now to an after- 
noon in those ancient clothes with the oily 
stigma of the workshop upon them. His 
hands, too, were black from his work ; he 
had slept badly in the train and done without 
a bath. In the soft sunlight that rained 
upon those brilliant streets he felt foul and 




He yawned, between a certain afternoon 
drowsiness and a languid depression. 

" I'll wander up to the Meurice and get a 
wash, anyhow/' he decided, and turned to 
stroll through the Tuileries gardens towards 
the hotel. He went slowly ; it was pleasant 
among the trees; and when a seat in the 
shadow offered itself he sank down into it. 

" I'll sleep all right in the train to-night," 
he thought, shoving back his cap. 

There were children playing somewhere 
out of sight ; their voices came to him in an 
agreeable tinkle. He crossed one leg over 
the other and settled himself more comfort- 
ably ; he had plenty qf time to spare now. 
His eyes closed, restfully. 

The touch that roused him was a very 
gentle one, scarcely more than a ghost of a 
sensation, the mere brush of a dexterous 
hand that slid as quietly as a shadow along 
the edge of his jacket pocket and groped 
into it with long, clever fingers, while its 
owner, sitting beside him on the bench, 
gazed meditatively before him with an air 
of complete detachment from that skilled, 
felonious hand. Raleigh, waking without 
moving, was able for a couple of seconds to 
survey his neighbour, a sUm, white-faced 
youth, with a black cotton cap slouched 
forward over one eye. Then, swiftly, he caught 
the exploring hand by the wrist and sat up. 

" Your mistake," he said, crisply ; " there's 
nothing but old letters in that pocket." 

The youth, at the first alarm, tried to 
wrench loose, writhing in startled effort like 
a pronged snake, with all his smooth, vicious 
face clenched in violent fear. Raleigh gave 
a twisting jerk to the skinny wrist, and the 
struggle was over ; the lad uttered a yelp 
and collapsed back on to the seat. 

" Be good," warned Raleigh, in easy 
French ; " be good, or 141 beat you. D'you 

The youth sniffed, staring with eyes in 
♦vhich a mere foolish fear was giving place to 
tunning. He was a creature flimsy as paper, 
fc mere lithe skinful of bones, in whom the 
vdt of the thief supplied the place of strength. 
He was making now his hasty estimate of 
tiie man he had to deal with. 

" Well," demanded Raleigh ; " what have 
you got to say for yourself ? " 

" Monsieur ! " the youth struck into an 
injured whine. " I meant no harm, but I 
was desperate. I have not eaten to-day " — 
Lb eyes noted the amused contempt on 
Raleigh's face, and he paused an instant, 
like a man taking aim — " and when I saw 
the lady slip the money into monsieur's 

pocket while he slept, and reflected that he 
would never even know that he had lost 
it " 

" Eh ? " Raleigh sat up. The thief sup- 
pressed a smile. " What lady, espece de 
fourneau ? What are you talking about ? " 

" It's not a minute ago," replied the 
youth, discarding the whine. " See, she is 
perhaps not out of sight yet, if monsieur 
will look along the path. No, there she goes 
—that one ! " 

His hand was free now ; he was using it 
to point with ; but he made no attempt to 

" She approached monsieur while he slept, 
walking cautiously, and slipped the money 
— it was a five-franc piece, I think — into his 
pocket. Yes, monsieur, that was the pocket." 

He smiled patronizingly as Raleigh plunged 
a hand into the pocket in question, fumbled 
among the papers there, and drew out the 
coin and stared at it. He had the situation 
in hand now ; he could get rid of this strong 
young man as soon as he pleased. 

" She is going out of the gate now, 
monsieur," he said. 

Raleigh turned. At the farther end of 
the path the woman who had been pointed 
out to him was close to the exit ; in a few 
seconds more she would be gone. He could 
see of her nothing save her back — that and 
a certain quality of carriage, a gait measured 
and deliberate. 

He threw a word to the thief, who stood 
by with his hands in his pockets and an air 
of relishing the situation. " All right ; you 
can go," he said, and started upon the chase 
of the secret bestower of alms. 

" And me ? " the outraged thief cried after 
him, in tones of bitterness. " And me ? I 
get nothing, then ? " 

The serge-clad back was disappearing 
through the gates into the welter of sunlight 
without ; Raleigh gathered up his feet and 
sprinted along the tree-shaded path. He was 
going to understand this business. He picked 
up the view of the serge-clad back again 
walking towards the bridge, hastened after 
it, and slowed down to its own pace when 
he was still some ten vards behind. 

" Why, it's a girl ! " 

Somehow, he had counted upon finding an 
elderly woman, some charitable eccentric 
who acquired merit by secret gifts. He saw, 
instead, a slim girl, neatly and quietly clad, 
whose profile, as she glanced across the 
parapet of the bridge, showed pearl-pale in 
the shadow of her hat, with a simple and 
almost childlike prettineus of feature. There 



was something else, too, a quality of the 
whole which Raleigh, who did not deal in 
fine shades, had no words to describe to 
himself. But he saw it, nevertheless — a 
gravity, a character of sad and tragic com- 
posure, that look of defeat which is prouder 
than any victory ; it waked his imagination. 

" Something wrong," he said to himself, 
vaguely, and continued to follow. 

At the southern end of the bridge she 
turned her back to the sun and went east 
along the quay where the second-hand 
booksellers lounged beside their wares. She 
neither hurried nor slackened that deliberate 
pace of hers ; Raleigh, keeping well behind, 
his wits at work acutely, wondered what it 
reminded him of, that slow trudge over the 
pavements. It was when the booksellers were 
left behind that an incident enlightened him. 

She stopped for a minute and leaned upon 
the parapet ; he crossed the road to be out 
of sight in case she should look back. She 
had been carrying in her hand a purse, and 
now he saw her open it and apparently search 
its interior, but idly and without interest, as 
though she knew already what to expect of 
it. Then she closed it and tossed it over the 
parapet into the river. 

" Ah ! " Sudden comprehension rushed 
upon him ; he knew now what that slow, 
aimless gait suggested to him. He recalled 
evenings in London when he walked or 
drove through the lit streets and saw, here 
and there, the figures of those homeless ones 
who walked — walked always, straying forward 
in a footsore progress till the night should be 
ripe for them to sit down in some corner. 
And then that shadow in her face, that 
mouth, tight-held but still drooping ; her 
way at looking at the river ! His hand in 
his pocket closed over the five-franc piece 
which she had dropped there ; he started 
across the road to accost her forthwith, but 
at that moment she moved on again, and 
once more he fell into step behind her. 

There is a point, near the He de la Cite, 
where the Seine projects an elbow ; the quay 
goes round in a curve under high houses ; 
a tree or two overhangs the water, and there 
is a momentary space of quiet, almost a 
privacy at the skirts of bustling Paris. 
Here, commonly, men of leisure sit through 
the warm hours, torpidly fishing the smooth, 
green depth of water below ; but now there 
were none. The girl followed the elbow 
round and stopped at the angle of it. She 
leaned her arms on the coping and gazed 
down at the quiet, still water below. 

She was looking at it with such a pre- 

occupation that Raleigh was able to come 
close to her before he spoke. He, too, put 
an arm on the parapet at her side. 

" Looks peaceful, doesn't it ? " he said, 

The girl's head rose with a jerk and she 
stared at him startled. 

" I — I — who are you ? " she stammered. 
" What do you want ? " 

He was able to see now that her pale com- 
posure was maintained only by an effort, that 
the strain ol it was making her tremble. He 
answered in tones of caretul conventionality. 

u I'mafraid I startled you," he said. " I m 
sorry. I shouldn't have ventured to speak 

to you at all if you hadn't " He 

paused. " You don't happen to remember me 
at all ? " he asked. 

" No," said Annette. " If I hadn't what ? " 

He slipped a hand into his pocket and drew 
forth the five-franc piece. The broad palm 
it lay on was still grimy from the workshops. 

" I happened to fall asleep in the Tuileries 
this afternoon/ 1 he said. " Idiotic thing to 
do, but " 

" Oh ! *' The colour leapt to her face. 
" Was that— you ? " 

Raleigh nodded. " You had hardly moved 
away when a man tried to pick my pocket 
and woke me in doing so. He told me what 
he'd seen and pointed you out." 

Annette gazed at him in tired perplexity. 
When he was on his feet, the condition of his 
clothes and hands and the absurd black 
patch on his chin were noticeable only as 
incongruities ; there was nothing now to 
suggest the pauper or the outcast in this big 
youth with the pleasant voice and the strongly- 
tanned face. 

44 I — I made a mistake," she said. " I saw 
you sleeping on the bench and I thought — a 
little help, coming from nowhere like that — 
you'd be so surprised and glad when you found 
it." She sighed. " However, I was wrong. 
I'm sorry." 

"I'm not ! " Raleigh put the money back 
in his pocket swiftly. " I think it was a won- 
derful idea of yours ; it's the most splendid 
thing that ever happened to me. There was 
I, grumbling and making mistakes all day, 
playing the fool and pitying myself, and all 
the time you were moving somewhere within 
a mile or two, out of sight, but watching and 
saying : * Yes, you're no good to anybody, but 
if the worst comes to the worst you sha'n't 
starve. I'll save you from that ! ' I'll never 
part with that money." 

Annette shook her f head j weariness in- 
habit^litERlftlTJa'Jluyi^Hlhi^W 1 I didn't say 



that/' she answered. " You weren't starving 
and — you don't understand. It doesn't 
matter, anyhow." 

" Please/' said Raleigh. He saw that 
she wanted to get rid of him, and he had no 
intention of letting her do so. " It matters 
to me, at any rate. But there is one thing 
I didn't understand." 

She did not answer, gazing over her clasped 
hands at the water, across whose level the 
spires and chimneys of the city bristled like 
the skyline of a forest. 

" It was while I was following you here, 
wondering whether I might speak to you," 
he continued. " I was watching you as 
you went, and it seemed to me that you were 
•—well, unhappy, in trouble or something. 
And then, back there on the quay, I saw you 
open your purse and throw it into the river." 
He paused. " There was a hole in it," said 
Annette, shortly, without turning her head. 

" But " he spoke very quietly. " You 

are in trouble ? Yes, I know I'm intruding 
upon you' 1 — she had moved her shoulders 
impatiently — " but haven't you given me 
just the shadow of a right ? Your gift — it 
might have saved my life if I'd been what you 
thought ; I might have fetched up in the 
morgue before morning. Men do, you know, 
every day — women, too ! " Her fingers upon 
the parapet loosened and clasped again at 
that. " You can't tie me hand and foot with 
such an obligation as that and leave me 
planti la." 

"Oh!" Annette sighed. "It's nothing 
at all," she said. " But, as you want so 
much to know, I'm a typist ; I'm out of 
work ; I've been looking for it all day, and 
I'm disappointed and very tired." 

" And that's really all ? " demanded 

U A11!" She turned to look at him at 
last, meeting his steady and penetrating 
eyes quietly. She had an impulse to tell 
him what was comprehended in that " all," 
to speak deliberate, plain words that should 
crumple him into an understanding of her 
tragedy. But even while she hesitated there 
came to her a sense that he knew more than 
he told, that the grey eyes in the red-brown 
face had read more of her than she was willing 
to show. She subsided. 
" Yes, that's all," she said. 
He nodded, a quick and businesslike little 
jerk of the head. " I see. I've been worry- 
ing you, I'm afraid, but I'm glad I made you 
tell. Because I can put that all right for 
you at once, as it happens." 
The girl leaning on the wall drew in a 

harsh breath and turned to him. Young 
Raleigh, who had written a monograph on 
engineering stresses, had still much to learn 
about the stresses that contort and warp 
the souls of men and women. He learned 
some of it then, when he saw the girl's pale 
face deaden to a blanker white and the 
flame of a hungry hope leap into her eyes. 
He looked away quickly. 

" You mean — you can " 

He hushed # her with his brisk and matter- 
of-fact little nod. 

" I mean I can find you a situation in a 
business office as a typist," he said, explicitly. 
" Wasn't that what you wanted ? " 

" Yes, yes." She was trembling ; he put 
one large grimy hand upon her sleeve to 
steady her. " Oh, please, where is the office ? 

I'll go there at once, before " 

" Hush," he said. " It's all right. We'll 
get a taxi and I'll take you there. It's the 
Machine-Tool and Gear-Cutting Company ; 

I don't know what they pay, but " 

" Anything," moaned Annette. " I'll take 

" Well, it's more than that," he smiled. 
" A typist with Raleigh and Son at her back 
isn't to be had every day of the week." 

A taxi-cab drifted out of a turning on to the 
quay a hundred yards away ; Raleigh waved 
a long arm and it came towards them. 

" And after we've fixed this little matter/' 
suggested Raleigh, " don't you think we might 
go somewhere and feed ? I can get a sketchy 
kind of wash at the office while you're talking 
to the manager ; and I'm beginning to 
notice that I didn't have any lunch to-day." 
" I didn't, either," said Annette, as the 
taxi slid to a standstill beside them. " But, 
oh ! you don't know — you don't know all 
you're doing for me. I shall never be able 
to thank you properly." 

Raleigh opened the door of the cab for her. 
" You can try," he said. " I'm in Paris for 
three days every fortnight." 

The taxi-cabs of Paris include in their 
number the best and the worst in the world. 
This was one of the latter, a moving musical- 
box of grinding and creaking noises. But 
Annette sank back upon its worn and knobbly 
cushions luxuriously, gazing across the sun- 
gilt river to the white window-dotted cliffs of 
Paris with the green of trees foaming about 
their base. 

" Oh, don't you love Paris ? " she cried, 

u I do," agreed Raleigh, warmly, watching 
the soft glow that iiad come to her face. 
" I can't keep away from it." 










OST men may be considered 
to live ^ in one way or another, 
by their wits. But of few 
can it he said that they live 
by their wit. Even among 
the professional humorists, 
the list of those who can be 
so described is brief, for there is all the 
difference (to make a not inapt comparison 
with fireworks) between the elaborate " set- 
piece " which they usually offer for our 
entertainment, and the sudden squib which 
a nimble wit flings in our startled faces. 

It is the readiness of his wit which makes 
the humour of Mr. Alfred Leete. To the 
great public which laughs over his pictures 
he is the fellow with the funny ideas/' and 
it k the comic thought which a sketch by 
him embodies, or the comic situation which 
it portrays, that remains fixed in the mind, 
rather than the picture itself. 

Of course j it goes without saying that the 
drawing is funny in itself, and exceedingly 
so, for otherwise it would fail of its humorous 
purpose, and Mr. Leete would not deserve 
the title of artist, Hut few men worry 
themselves less about the manner of accom- 
plishment : his sole concern Is to make his 
point incisively — to hit the nail he is aiming 
at squarely on the head, and drive it home 
with a single bang. It follows inevitably 

that, whatever the means he may adopt in 
pursuance of so definite a purpose, they are 
certain to be suited to the end in view, 

Mr, Leete comes from the West of England, 
but he has lived a good many years in London, 
and might fairly be claimed as a Londoner. 
At all events, hLs humour has the real Cockney 
spirit— that irrepressible love of banter 
which cannot resist making game of even 
the most portentous solemnities, that gay 
philosophy which the baffled foreigner so 
often interprets as a refusal to take things 
seriously. Not that this spirit is peculiar to 
the Londoner — it is, in point of fact, the 
essence of the national humour, which merely 
finds its most lively expression in Cockney 
wit, Thomas Atkins on the battlefield has 
astonished the nations of Europe bv his 
unrivalled display of it, and Thomas Atkins, 
in these days, embodies the national type 
pretty comprehensively, 

Mr. Leete's humour, in short, is essentially 
English in character, and typically Cockney 
in manner of ^expression. Consider, for 
example, his sketch of " Mr. Beetle J! calling 
his spouse to come and look at the " Zeppe- 
lin " crawling overhead, in the shape of a 
bloated caterpillar. Is there not here a 
perfect parable in picture of the Londoner's 
half -curious, half-contemptuous attitude to 
the enemv's much-vaunted and inflated 
" Zepps " ? 

From Zeppelins to balloons, even if only 
of the toy .variety, is an easy transition, and 
the sketch'o'F'tHfe'imAfl 'Boy asking hLs mother 
to bd^+ll 'iBfeiliTdf'vtiEli^ bdt'-m^M' is an excellent 



example of the artist's faculty for seeing 
things in terms of the ludicrous. His quirk, 
appraising eye detects elements of absurdity 
where most of us would perceive only the 
commonplace and normal., and his ready wit 
instantly turns them to account. And, as 
becomes an artist who draws for the Press, 
he is a good journalist, That is to say, he 
is keenly alive to all that is going on around 
him. He listens and he observes, subse- 
quently recording in his own inimitable 
manner the humorous impressions which 
eye and ear have received. 

Humour is an elusive quantity, and the 
analysis of it a difficult and baffling quest. 
But it has been laid down^ I believe, on the 
seemingly unimpeachable authority of the 
editor of Punch , that its vital element is 
incongruity, Mr. Leete's drawings here re- 
produced might well be cited in support of 
this theory, for though many are less obviously 
dependent on incongruity than the ridiculous 
picture of the escaping convict and his 
diminutive victim, that Quality will be found, 

Mr. Beetle; " Lizzie, com 

MM.- **~» 


11 Oh, mother, do buy me that one 
with the hat on I** 

Bt permi*$ten vf th$ * faiter," 

in greater or less degree, 
inherent in alL 

Mr. Leete's sense of the 
ludicrous ? indeed, is invincible. 
No one has been quicker to 
seize the ludicrous aspects of 
the war — and the present war 
would not seem, on the surface, 
a very fertile source of comedy. 
Vet the comic side of warfare 
has been daily revealed to us,, 
in stories official and otherwise,, 
by that incomparable band of 
humorists, the British Army. 
And in key with Tommy's: 
irreverent guying of " Kuhur" 
and ' f e u t onic " f rightfulness ' \ 
is the reduciio ad absurd urn 
which Mr, Leetc, with infectious 
gusto, has applied to all the 
warlike manifestations of the 

The " G. R." brassard of the 
Volunteer Corps lias not escaped 
his quizzical eye. That " G. R/ + 
sketch, by the way promises to 





The Escaped Convict (having compelled Utile 
Spifkins to effect a change of clothing) : " You lake 
my tip, guv 1 nor, an ] 'op it quick. If them warders 
sees yer, they'll shoot \ * 

Bm ptnniui&n vf th& m SHtokT 

way. Its popularity lias 
been immense — and nowhere 
greater than in the ranks of 
the " Gorgeous Wrecks J> 
themselves ! 

But perhaps Mr, Leetc's 
most notable contribution to 
the humours of the war is 
his creation of Schmidt the 
Spy* As an eminent critic 
recently remarked, in dis- 
cussing this egregiously 
absurd personality, man) 
new things were looked for 
as a result i of the war, but 
one thing certainly not ex- 
pected was the invention" of 
a new comic type* (t Spy 
fever/' as wc all know, 
spread like an epidemic at 
the beginning of the war— it 
is, indeed j still rampant, and 
perhaps not without reason. 
Mr, Leete was infected, like 
everyone else, but in his case 
the malady took a peculiarly 
individual course- The 
patient broke out in a new 
place and threw off a laugh- 
able series of drawings 

representing the legendary adventures of a 
German spy in our midst. 

Schmidt h a truly artistic creation, for he 
exactly embodies the average impression 
formed in this country of the average Teutonic 
mind. Just as his quaint little figure of fun 
travesties the familiar outward character- 
istics of the typical German, so the fantastic 
com fusions at which he arrives, as a result 
of his earnest but futile spying, burlesque the 
whole attitude of mind which the disciples 
of 44 Kultur '" display. Not without reason 
are the British regarded as the most tolerant 
of people , and the slowest to anger. We 
prefer lo laugh at our enemies rather than 
to hate them. Perhaps the complacency 
which is so often charged against us induces 
us to feel we can afford to 1 

At all events , no one can feel real enmity 
towards Schmidt as his creator depicts him. 
Observe him, for instance, in the episode 
reproduced, with unopened crush hat upon 
his head, fondly imagining himself to be in 
suitable evening disguise, while he mistakes 
a tar furnace for an anti-aircraft gun, and a 
bibulous night-watchman for a sentry with 




u enemy " 

as roust beef and 

It is this unruffled 
good humour which 
makes the artist's 
work so essentially 
English in charac- 
ter, and so strongly 
in contrast, there- 
fore, to the mor- 
dant satire of his 
French contempo- 
raries. Where the 
Frenchman stabs, 
or the German 
would clumsily be- 
labour, the 
Englishman merely 

Possibly the 
artist has been in- 
spired by a certain 
sympathetic inte- 
rest in Schmidt, 


" The English are living in fear of Zeppelin rsuds s and at night sentries in bomb- 
proof shelters are placed in the streets, armed with high-angle fire-guns and supplied 
with special telescopes." 

B& r*rmi*nim o/ London QptniVM." 

a telescope ! Is there not 
something engaging — one 
had almost said lovable — 
about the preposterous Ettle 
fellow 1 ? 

- Not the least notable of 
Mr. Leete's qualities as a 
comic artist is his Invariable 
good humour. Even when 
he sets himself to depict 
imaginary scenes in the 
enemy's country during time 
of war, he retrains from 
bitterness or malice. Our 
Turkish foe, who possesses 
a robuster sense of humour 
than his German ally, would 
be delighted j one feels sure, 
with the artist's vision of 
a queue of wives waiting to 
draw their separation allow- 
ances I 

If a sense of humour were 
not so conspicuously absent 
from the Teutonic mind, 
even a German could hardly 
fail to smile at the affecting 
grief of a family mourning 
the loss of their " Fido,*' 
or at the supposed com- 
motion ma Berlin restaurant W1VES oF A TURKISH SiaLIilE^ COJNG TO DRAW HIS* 
over the ordering of s*ch ^jwnntofono/] marriage mxowancf^ im* h ^ttmvicr^ 



for he was himself once mistaken, if not for 
Schmidt in disguise, at least for one of the 
spying fraternity. The circumstances should 
have a peculiar interest for readers of The 
Strand Magazine, some of whom will recall 
the publication, several months ago, of a 


German family trying to think that poor Fido tastes like rabbit. 

Sensational arrest in a Berlin restaurant of a customer who ordered roast beef 

and macaroni. 

if it jjtfErmtwrioM of " Ltmdan Opinion.'* 

story by Mr. P. G. Wodehouse, entitled (( The 
Romance of an Ugly Policeman." Mr. Leete 
was commissioned to illustrate that tale, and 
as the author had specially designated York 
Mansions, Battersea Park, as the scene of the 

narrative, to Battersea Park the artist duly 
repaired, Penetrating the subterranean ap- 
proaches to the back premises of York Man- 
sion s, he proceeded to make the sketches he 
required. But this was in the early days of 
the war, and it was not to be thought that 

a possible alien 

__ enemy should 

sketch without 
let or hindrance 
a point of such 
strategic import- 
ance as a block 
of Battersea 
flats. Conscious 
of scrutiny 3 Mr, 
Leete presently 
looked up from 
his half -finished 
task to find him- 
self under the 
surveillance of 
sundry lift - boys 
and other attend- 
ants. Explana- 
tions were of 
small a vail j and 
the future creator 
of Schmidt was 
solemnly escorted 
to the street and 
assured that 
" next time he 
wouldn't get off 
so easy," It may ' 
be remarked that 
in any case, spy- 
ing or no spying, 
" n e x t time" 
would have been 
" never," for the 
already con- 
tained all the 
notes needful, 
and readers of 
this magazine 
who wish to learn 
the rear aspect of 
York Mansions, 
Battersea Park, 
have only to turn 
to their bound 
volumes ! 

It is not only in war-time, however, that 
the artist who wishes to make a sketch finds 
himself suspect. On one occasion Mr. Leete, 
guilelessly walking along a country lane, hap- 
pened pfl (Vgf^fr^fte^ ftfB A HTall elms rose 



from its edge and were mirrored in its cool 
depths, while across the dark and shining sur- 
face there paddled a procession of sunlit, 
gleaming white ducks* It was a scene to set 
any artist groping for his paint-box, and Mr, 
Leete at once addressed himself to the farmer. 

" Do you mind if I make a sketch of your 
duck-pond ? " 

" Yes, I dot" was the 
unexpected answer. 
" Half my ducks wore 
stolen only last wrck ! f " 

Readers of Thk Strand 
Magazine are well ac- 
quainted with Mr, Leete' s 
clever work as an illus- 
trator, To the topical 
weekly papers his ready 
wit and resourc fulness 
of ideas make him an 
invaluable ally 
e s p e c ially 
with London 
and few car- 
toonists can 
clai m so 
brilliant a 
s u c c ession 
of apt com- 
ment a ries 
on passing 
events as 
those which 
appear, with 
almost un- 
failing regu- 
lar it v, on 
the front 
page of that 
paper. An 

outstanding case in point is the arresting head 
of Lord Kitchener with the appeal, £t Your 
Country needs YOU I M reproduced in these 
pages, than which there has probably been no 
more popular and successful recruiting appeal 
issued during the progress of the war. 

A gift for caricature, coupled with that 
happiness of invention to which allusion has 
already been made, admirably equips Mr. 
Leete for the special function of cartoonist, 
" Willie and the White Elephant " well illus- 
trates both his clever treatment of facial 
characteristics and his ingenuity of idea. 
Equally characteristic of Mr, Leete's resource 
are the fi Play Titles n which he has con- 
tributed weekly for eight years without 
a break to London Opinion — a series of 

pictorial puns which many must regularly 
look for with amused anticipation. It is no 
easy matter to devise a travesty of such an 
arbitrary phrase as the title of a current 
play, yet Mr, Leete not only triumphantly 
solves that initial problem, but generally 
succeeds in giving his sketch additional 

topical point. An 
excellent example is 
"Ente rpris ing 
Helen," represented 
by a small child 
endeavouring to buy 
a War Loan voucher. 
Or again , what more 
diabolically neat and 
up-to-date interpre- 
tation could be 
imagined of the 
coupled titles ;| To- 
night's the Night" 
and " While London 
Sleeps" than the 
sketch of Zeppelin 
aviators receiving 
flying orders ? 

Apropos of carica- 
turej Mr. Leete tells 
an amusing story of 
his effort* 
at private 
He once 
made some 
sketches of 
a certain 
Council, in 
which the 

Bv i*rn\u.iv.n u/J EVER 

ISSUED, ( Lttutou tViftfam. TUCtCriStlCS 

of the 
different members were naturally slightly 
emphasized. The sketches duly appeared in 
the local paper, and the folio wing morning 
the artist chanced to meet the wife of Mr« 
Councillor Brown. 

" Oh , Mr. Leete/' exclaimed the lady, 
11 what excellent sketches those are which 
you made of the Council ! I don't think you 
quite got my husband, but most of the 
portraits are splendid, and Mr, Jones is 
simply a speaking likeness ! " 

In the afternoon , the wife of Mr. Councillor 
Jones was encountered. She delivered her- 
self thus : — 

" Mr. Leete, you're a perfect genius ! I've 
never seen sue}:, good likenesses as your 
S ketchp N p; E ^ 1 (Y» WC ^ R rp Hi: -^jion > tf e cl'yo U 




Bg perm < into* vf tfwt " Sk^kK" 

quite got my husband, but you hit off Mr. 
Brawn to a T ! " 

And this true story may be capped by the 
astonishing but undoubted fact that Schmidt 
the Spy has a double in real life ! At all 
events, hardly a week passes but Mr. Leete 
hears that Schmidt has been seen by some- 
body in the flesh. And from the circum- 
stance that he is usually reported from the 

same town, it would really seem that the 
comic type which the artist evolved from his 
inner consciousness has actually a living 
counterpart. Proverbially there is nothing 
new under the sun ! 

The present article lias been concerned 
almost exclusively with Mr, Leete in his 
capacity of jester, But motley is not/ his 
only wear. He has his serious moments 
(liable to sudden interruptions, it is true, by 
that turbulent sense of the ludicrous) and 
cherishes ambitions which it would be 
irrelevant to enlarge upon here* He does 
not, indeed ? fall into the familiar error of 
the clown who is convinced he ought to 
be playing Hamlet, but he takes his art 
conscientiously , is always striving after 
something new and belter, and is little 
likely to become, under the numbing influence 
of success, a case of arrested development* 
In which connection one may conclude with 
one more story. 

A certain bore of the artist's acquaintance, 
when wandering round the studio and indulg- 
ing in aimless conversation after the irritating 
manner of his kind, paused before a very fine 
original drawing by Frank Craig, which hung 
on the wall. lie pondered it in silence for 
some moments, and then gave utterance, 

b( 1 really think, my dear chap," was his 
discriminating remark, SL that's the best 
drawing vou've ever done ! M 

11 And if it 
had been* 1 ' 
Mr. Leete, 
relating this 
story to the 
writer, " it 
edly would 
have been !" 



„, ,™,^ ,/ » ^ o^ERSITY OF MICHIGAN 



Illustrated by IV. Heath Robinson. 

HERE once lived in a small 
village a cobbler, who was 
very poor. He mended shoes 
so well for his neighbours that 
there was very little work 
they could give him to do. 
Thus he grew poorer and 
poorer until at length there came a day when 
there was nothing more in the house to eat, 
and his only possession was an old she-goat. 
The cobbler then decided that he must fare 
forth and seek his fortune elsewhere. 

44 You see how it is," he said to his old wife ; 
/* it is impossible for me to remain here any 
longer, for there is no more work for me to 
do, and soon we shall starve. I must there- 
fore kill the old she-goat, that you may cook 
me some meat to carry with me on the journey 
which I must now undertake." 

The goat was killed the next day. The 
cobbler took a portion of the flesh, and leaving 
the rest for his wife, set forth upon the road. 
He journeyed all day, but came neither to 
town nor village, nor any inhabited spot. 
At last, when night was closing in, he reached 
a place where an old statue stood by the road- 
side. He lay down beside this to rest, and 
was beginning to eat a little meat, when 
suddenly the statue above him spoke. 

44 What have you in that bundle ? " asked 
the strange questioner. 

" I have nothing but a little goat's flesh," 
replied the astonished cobbler, " for I am 
a poor man, and travel in search of my 

" Do not eat the goat's flesh," said the 
statue, '* but take it with you to yonder 
bend of the road. There you will see a small 
wooden hut, in which a band of imps have 
their workshop. Cast the goat's flesh within, 
and when the imps ask what payment you 
require, demand from them the old rag 

which lies upon the bed. Refuse all other 
recompense, and it will be well with you." . 

Obedient to these instructions, the cobbler 
arose and walked to the bend of the road, 
where he found, as the statue had foretold, 
a small wooden hut. Going up to the door, 
he cast in his meat. At once he heard the 
voices of the imps asking what payment he 

" The old rag which lies upon the bed," 
said the cobbler. 

The imps cried out that it was impossible ; 
but the cobbler stuck to his point, and in the 
end the rag was handed out to him. 

The cobbler took it and returned to the 
statue. On the way he examined the sup- 
posed treasure, and found it a miserable 
thing, far worse than any which he had left 
behind in his own poor dwelling. He com- 
plained bitterly, therefore, to the statue, 
which he considered had tricked him by such 
poor advice. 

" Be not so hasty," said the statue. ' Take 
the rod which ycu see in my hand, and having 
placed the rag flat on the ground, tap three 
time upon it." 

The cobbler did as he was bid, and lo ! 
immediately the rag was covered with a 
wonderful array of appetizing dishes. The 
hungry cobbler fell to with a will, for it was 
long since he had tasted Such excellent food, 
and he saw plainly that through the good 
offices of the statue he had acquired a magic 
rag which would keep him from want. 

Having finished his meal the cobbler 
rolled up the rag, gave grateful thanks to 
the statue, and took the road for home. But 
it was late when he started, and he was 
obliged to pass the night at an inn. While 
there he could not refrain from displaying to 
the folk present the magical properties of 
his precious ra&. All were much astonished. 




The host and his wife eagerly desired to 
possess the rag, and determined that when 
the cobblei was asleep they would gain 

possession of it. During the night, therefore, 
the host stole it from the cobbler's bedside, 
substituting another which resembled it in 

_M timing came, and the cobbler, 
having paid his reckoning, departed. 
When he reached home he invited all 
his friends to share a feast with him. 
His neighbours duly assembled, but 
were surprised to find -the table bare. 
Then the cobbler produced the rag 
which he had brought home, and^ 
placing it on the table, related the 
marvellous adventure of the previous 

His story being ended, the cobbler 
struck three times upon the rag with 
the rod which he had taken from the 
statue's hand. Hut no dishes ap- 
peared, and the company waited 
ex pec tan 1 1 y . Some w ha t disconcerted , 
the cobbler again struck thrice, with 
no better result, Repeated efforts 
proved equally futile, and the poor 
cobbler, whose house was as empty as 

- r\V a Sf5lf ~ Original from 




when lie left it, was obliged to dismiss his 
neighbours hungry. 

The unfortunate man attributed his ill- 
luck to the statue, and determined to make 
complaint to the latter* He therefore took 
another piece of flesh and repaired a second 
time to the spot where he had rested. But 
in reply to his upbraidings, the statue merely 
bade him take the second piece of flesh to the 
workshop of the imps and cast it in as before. 
This time, however, he was to demand as 
payment the old she-goat which was tethered 
at the door* The cobbler did as he was told, 
and presently returned with a wretched old 
she- goat, more miserable even than the one 
he had slaughtered a few days previously. 
Bitterly he complained over the sorriness of 
his bargain, 

" Be not too hasty, 3 ' said the statue ; u but 
take the rod from my hand and strike the 
goat thrice on the back/ 1 

The cobbler now saw that a new rod rested 
in the hand of the statue. He took it and 

struck three blows upon the goat's back. 
Immediately the goat shook its ears, and out* 
of the latter fell some gold pieces. The cob- 
bler's grief was changed to delight. Thanking 
the statue, he hurried homeward, driving the 
goat before him* 

But on the way he passed once more the 
inn at which he had previously stayed. He 
there ordered refreshment, but when he had 
eaten and drunk he remembered that he had 
no money, and for a moment was disconcerted. 
Then he recollected the magic properties of 
the goat he was driving. He duly struck 


i WA 




the beasr with his rod, and the obliging 
animal s hook a couple of gold coins from 
its ears* 

The innkeeper's covetousness was instantly 
aroused, and life determined that he would 
steal the goat from the cobbler as he had 
already filched the rag, During the night 
he took away the cobbler's goat and substi- 
tuted another from his own flock which was 
in equally ill condition. The cobbler noticed 
no difference, and when morning came he 
went his way. 

Determined, on reaching home, to make 
amends to his friends for their former dis- 
appointment, he bade his wife procure a roast 
pig for dinner, promising that the money 
to pay for it would be forthcoming. 

While the meal was preparing he went 

round to all his neighbours and bade them 
come to his house. But when it was time 
to pay for the meal the cobbler found his 
luck had once more left him. He duly tapped 
the goat three times with his rod, but though 
the beast shooK its ears, no money was forth- 
coming. The cobbler tried again , without 
success ; then, becoming enraged, he beat 
the unhappy goat mercilessly. The poor 
beast shook its ears violently, but nothing 
could be got from it save an agonized bleat. 

Once more the laughing-stock of his neigh- 
bours, and his poverty now increased by 
debt, the cobbler prepared for a third journey. 
He took the last piece of goat- flesh that 
remained, and presented himself once more 
before the statue. Again the statue gave him 
similar advice, bidding him this time demand 


from the imps the old hat 
that hung behind the door, 

The cobbler duly acquired 

the hat and brought it to 

his mysterious benefactor. 

The statue produced a third 

rod, apd bade the cobbler 

tap with it upon the hat, 

after placing the latter upon 

the ground. The act was 

no sooner performed than 

forth from the hat there marched a regiment 

of soldiers, which formed up in line and 

waited for orders. 

The cobbler looked with delight upon his 
miniature army, and made it perform various 
evolutions. Then he struck once more upon 
the hat, aridrtbffTEp|lflre*H"i at once marched into 




The cobbler was now in great glee, for the 
statue explained to him that on the previous 
occasions he had been tricked by the dishonest 
innkeeper, and here were means to hand by 
which revenge could be obtained. Away 
he went to the inn, taking the shabby old 
hat with him. Confronting the host, he 
demanded the return of his rag and goat, but 

the rascally innkeeper denied that he had 
stolen them. At once the cobbler tapped 
upon the hat, anc in an instant the soldiers 
filled the tap-room and took the innkeeper 
prisoner, threatening him with death if he 
did not return the stolen goods. The 
terrified scoundrel at once gave them up, 
and the cobbler proceeded on his way, a 
rich man. 

Before he reached home, however, the 
cobbler sent a message to the king, inviting 
him to come and witness the strange things 
which he promised he could show him. The 
king duly arrived, and the cobbler revealed 
r/> him the magic properties of the rag and 
the old she-goat. The king was delighted, 
and being no more honest than the innkeeper, 
ordered his servants to seize the cobblers 


goods. In vain did the cobbler protest, but 
the king merely laughed and bade him think 
himself lucky not to be thrown into 
prison. The cobbler then stood upon his 
dignity and declared war upon the king. 
The latter was much amused at the challenge, 
but appointed a day in one month's time when 
the issue should be decided. 

In due course the important day arrived. 
The cobbler, equipped only with the magic 
hat ? appeared on the chosen field of battle. 
The king came with a squad of ten picked 
soldiers } and was mirthful when he found his 
opponent without a force of any kind. He 
laughed too soon, however, for the cobbler 
placed his hat upon the ground and beat 
upon, it thrice with the little rod, Out 
marched the famous regiment of soldiers, 
which promptly surrounded the king's body- 
guard, and took the monarch himself prisoner. 
The king was obliged to surrender, but was 
released on giving a promise to restore the 
stolen goods. 

The cobbler returned to his home, and 
lived happily and prosperously with the 
precious rag and goat, which none dared try 
to steal from him, for fear of the soldiers 



We have already dealt briefly with stars of fave and 
six points. The case of the seven -pain ted star is par- 
ticularly interesting. All you have to do is to place 

the numbers i, 2, 3, 
up to 14 in the four- 
teen discs so that 
every line of four 
discs shall add up to 
30. If you make a 
rough diagram and 
use numbered coun- 
ters, you will soon 
find it difficult to 
break away from the 
fascination of the 
thing. Possibly, 
however, not a single 
reader will hit upon 
a simple method of solution ; his answer, when found, 
will be obtained by mere patience and luck. Yet, like 
those of the large majority of the puzzles given in these 
pages, the solution is subject to law, if you can un- 
ravel it* Many are content to arrive at the answer 
to a puzzle by haphazard trials r but the true puzzkst 
will always try to get at the heart of the mystery, I 
will show next month a quite simple method of dealing 
with the seven -pointed star. Can you find one ? 

Her cheek , , • * * sadly, and there comes 

A sudden rush of tears, 
As memory . * . . * back across 

The * .... of fleeting years- 
She hears again the ..... of love 

He made beneath this tree ■ 
The merry ring in her ears. 

A widow now is she. 
Every missing word contains the same five letters. 

ACROSTIC poetry is of very great antiquity, the word 
being derived from the Greek and meaning " first -letter 
verse.*' The term was first applied to the verses of the 
Erythraean Sibyl, written on leaves * and they were 
excessively obscure prophecies, But the Acrostic 
Puzzle is a modern invention. The earliest Double 
Acrostic of this kind was published in the Illustrated 
London Nttvs, August 30th, 1856, and was by Ab Cutlv 
bert Bede 1 ' (Rev. J, Bradley), who wrote of these 
puzzles as agreeable novelties, "lately introduced," I 
will give this example next month. Why did these 
things become a sort of established feature in the 
columns of journals devoted to society and fashion ? 
I venture not only to attribute it to their having been 
a favourite pastime at the Court of Queen Victoria, bat 
to suggest the probability that one of the first 
inventors, if not the very first, was the Queen herself. 
A rare lit I le book fell into my hands, " Victorian 
Enigmas ; or Windsor Fireside Researches/' by Charlotte 
Eliza Capel, i£6i* The author says ; '* Five years 
ago a copy of one in this collection was handed to me 
to solve, with these words : * A friend at Windsor had 
this from the palace, said to be written by the Queen 
(or the Royal children, 1 " Now, five years from 1861 
rings us to iB$^ t the very year when " Cut Libert 

I3ede " says Double Acrostics were " lately introduced # * T 
It will be seen that the Queen's puzzle is not in verse, and 
doubtless it was " Cuthbert Bede/ 1 1 practised versifier, 
who put this finishing touch to the Double Acrostic, 

A city in Italy. 

A river in Germany* 

A town in the Tinted States. 

A town in North America* 

A town in Holland. 

The Turkish name for Constantinople* 

A towrn in Botl.nja, 

A city in Greere. 

A circle on the globe. 
The initials form the name of a town in England, and 
the finals (read upwards) what that town is famous for. 

He$e is a most captivating and instructive little 
study by S, R. Barrett* It ap- 
peared some years ago in an 
American magazine, but, for 
some reason, the solution seems 
never to have been published* 
On. first examining it I believed 
a solution to be impossible, 
but later discovered the wily 
.answer. White has to play and 
mate without moving his king 
or any one of the pawns. It 
will be seen at once that if 
Black had to play White would 
mate on his first move, and 
the point is to manoeuvre so 
that exactly the same position 
may be reached with Black to 
play, instead of White* This 
can be done by losing a move 
with the bishop (you cannot 
Jose a move with the knights)* 
and the difficulty is to do this 
without allowing Black to 
capture a pawn or to escape 
with his king into the middle of the board- Part of 
the board is omitted merely to save space. 

White to play and mate 

without moving his king 

or a pjwn, 

1'laCE eight lettered counters in the order indicated, 
so tLiat tLiey spell the name VICTORIA when read in a 

rim kwise direction. 
The puzzle is to slide 
the counters one at 
a time, from black 
to white and wLrite 
to black alternately* 
until the word reads 
correctly in the same 
direction, only with 
the initial letter V 
on one of the dark 
arms of the cross. 
If you move the in 
in the following 
curious order: 
AVICTOR! A V I C T O R I ! you will find that 
it can be done in twenty-ivra moves. But it is required 

t0 fc lMEft^fl)Jf*lCTlGAN 



The foDowing are the solutions of the Acrostics given in last month** article : — 




No. i. 

A n a gr a M 

L Ian O 

1 n ma N 

M agent A 

I n n-k e e p e R 

6. T eutoni C 

7. E levcnt H 

8. D e Y 

No. 3. 

t. G alatian S 

2. U hi a N 

3. T olsto I 

4. T rom P 

5. £ mulat £ 

6. R epo S 

No. 5. 

No. 2. 

1. D C 

2. U lv A 

3. BlunderbusS 

4. LcgomachisT 

5. I stambo L 

6. N acr E 

No. 4. 

1. H avan A 

2. dontologica L 

3. M ichae L 

4. E lcc to R 

5. R econcentrad O 

6. U s U (ally) 

7. L e n t e N 

8. E ucli D 

No. 6. 


E ncomiu 







L a pu t 





L ympha 
E rl-kin 












N atur 







P latof 







A rg 


G rangousie 



£ g inh ar 
No. 7. 


No. 8. 

1. W D 





2. I E 



s ke 


3. L E 





4. L D 







r k 


No. 9. 

No. 10. 


P e 







I ndit 




n c ae n i 



N cc t ar i n 




i q u e 



S a 




n vest men 



A n g e 







N am 




e n i n 



D uches 




No. 11. 



o ve 

s t r aco 

No. 13. 



No 16. 

1. J ui F 

2. OperatoR 

3. F ar E 

4. F arthi N (gale) 

5. R o C(oco) 

6. E naug H 

No. 17. 

1. S p r i n T 

2. T rut H 

3. I rredeemabl E 

4. L a n d e D 

5. L ami A 

6. I nvestigato R 

7. N ick-nac K 










y dr 



u n gal o 





I (dent) 


D emois ell E 

No. 15. 

T empest T 

H o t c H (kiss) 

E s p a g n E 


o a - 

n z 

a t h e 




B (orare) 

No. 18. 

1. Q uadrati C 

2. U nderg O 
,3. A lar M 

4. S trea M 

5- I c E 

6. I n t e r i M 

7. N O 

8. S u p p e R 

9. A ren A 

10. N igh T 

11. I. I. 

12. T w O 

13. Y aw N 

.Note.- -Light 9 Or, pos- 
sibly, 4l Arista** ; but there 
should be a more convincing 
answer than either of these. 


The Ruby Brooch 
Crime. — The diagram, No. 1, 
shows the original form of 
the brooch. The thief re- 
moved the four stones 
marked A, B, C, D and set 
one of them in the centre, as 
in diagram No. 2. He thus 
secured three stones without 
preventing there being eight 
stones in every count from 

the centre, up one row, along 
the edge, and down the next 
row. Thus only one stone 
need be re-set. 

The Brondesbiry Bur- 
glary. — The key-word was 
LYM (a dog held in a learn), 
read in the order 3, 2, 1 on 
the £hree dials of the combi- 
nation lc<:k. 



Stealing the Beli^-Ropes. — Call the six ropes i, 
2, 3, 4, 5, 6. First tie together at the ends 1 and 2, 
Then bind together with your scarf or handkerchief 3. 
4, 5, and 6, and climb 1 with the united ends of the four 
slung over your arm. When well up the rope twist it 
round your legs for support and pull in ropes 3, 4, 5, 
and 6, cutting them off as high as you can reach and 
letting them fall to the floor. Then cut off 2 and let it 
fall, only leaving enough hanging to enable you to 
tie a strong loop in it. Next, hanging by your arm to 
the loop, cut off 1 as high as you can reach, but on no 
account let it fall. Pass the end of No. 1 through the 
loop by which you are hanging and pull it through until 
you reach the knot joining it to No. 2. Finally, 
descend by the double rope and afterwards pull it 
through the loop to the ground. You have thus se- 
cured all six ropes, practically only sacrificing the por- 
tion of No. 2 required for making the loop. 

The Pimlico Murder. — The number of the cab was 
25186, for 251 multiplied by 86 gives us 21586, in 
which only the second and third figures are transposed. 
There are twelve ways, and no more, in which a five- 
figure number may be treated in this manner and pro- 
duce the same five figures, but this is the only one that 
answers the other condition. , 

The Stolen Albums. — The correct answer, giving 
the smallest aggregate number of stamps, is 482, 3362, 
6242. The common difference is 2880, and by adding 
the first and second, the first and third, and the second 
and third together you get the squares of 62, 82, and 98. 

The Trail of the Smasher.— The following num- 
bers will indicate the route : — 

1, i> 1, 5> l > 5> *> *> 5> 9» 9> !» 3» *f i> l > 3» *■ These 
add to 50. In order to get to Liverpool with any even 
number whatever it is absolutely necessary that you 
include those two o/s at the top right-hand corner. 
Having discovered this fact, you must reduce the rest 
of your count to 32. 

Who Killed 
Ratten bury? — 
Archer could have 
taken alone any one 
of twenty-four dif- 
ferent routes, but 
only twelve of these 
allow of the other 
men's routes without 
two men ever going 
along the same street 
or block. And of 
these twelve only one 
allows Cur wen to 

pass the star. The routes are shown in the diagram, 
from which it is evident that Banks must have 
passed Rattenbury's door, and was therefore the 







.- -r ^_ 













■ 1 


v, [ m 

1 ■ 









— -V 1 

«1 U 




L rnr 

A Strange Disappearance. — We are all apt to read 
into a story more than is actually there. It was never 
stated that "Charlie" was Mrs. Mayfield's husband. 
As a matter of fact, he was the small pet dog that was 
shown in the illustration. There is no possible way in 
which the husband could, in such circumstances, have 
got out 01 the room. Directly the dog's mistress left 
the room he jumped up and tried to follow her. Finding 
the door closed against him, he made a leap at the win- 
dow and passed easily between the iron bars on to the 
narrow window-ledge, from which he slipped and fell. 
He would undoubtedly have been killed if he had not 
had the luck to fall into a pot -shrub on the balcony of 
the floor next below. He thus escaped injury and was 
delivered up to Mr. Mayfield on his arrival by a later 

The Shooting of Brooks. — What was really written 
was, " I shot and killed 13 rooks," not, " I shot "and 
killed Brooks." It was a practical joke on the part of 
Morgan, who recognized the detective. 

The following is the solution of the end-game 
referred to in the chess story entitled " Irregular 
Forces," published in our last number : — 

1. Q to R 6, R to K 8 (best) (a) ; 2. Q to Q 6, ch., 
K. to Kt sq. ; 3. Kt to K 7, ch., K to B sq. (best) ; 
4. Kt to Kt 6, double check, K to Kt sq. ; 5. Q to B 8, 
ch., R takes 6 ; 6. Kt to K 7, ch., K to R sq. ; 7. R 
takes P, ch., K takes R ; 8. R to R 2, mate. 

(a). 1 , P takes Q ; 2. R takes P, K to 

Kt sq. ; 3. R to Kt 7, ch., K to B sq. ; 4. Kt to R 6, 
Q takes Kt P, ch. ; 5. P takes Q, R to K 7, ch. ; 6. R 
takes R and mates on the next move. 


The books are in the order 
sh wn herewi'h, so that page 1 
of vol. i. is next to page 100 
of vol. ii., and page 100 of 
vol. rii. is next to page 1 of 
vol. ii. The worm therefore 
travels through one leaf of 
vol. i., one hundred leaves 
of vol. ii., and one leaf of 
vol. iii. As each leaf is rJffin. 
thick, the total distance is 
fjj$ or i*o2in. 

To make sense of the apparently nonsensical sen- 
tence given last month, one must imagine a ship out- 
side a harbour- bar with the tide right out and not enough 
depth of water lor her to come in. Bearing such a 
situation in mind, the meaning of the sentence is, of 
course, quite clear. 

The solution of last month's problem is as follows 
the card underlined winning the trick, while the card 
immediately beneath is led to the next trick: — 

A V R Z 

Diam onds ace Diamonds kve. Clubs queen ! 
Diam onds king Diamonds 5 Clubs ace ! 
Diamonds 8 ! Diamonds 7 

Hearts 6 

Clubs king 

Hearts 7 

Spades 2 

Clubs 5 ? 

Clubs 6 

Clubs 8 

Diamonds a 
Diamonds 3 
Hearts knave ! Diamonds 4 

The dotted line shows the 
track of the book-wonni 

Hearts 8 
Clubs knave 
Hearts 10 
Hearts ace 
Hearts 2 
Clubs 10 
Clubs 9 
Clu bs 7 
Diamonds 10 
Spaces, queen 

Hearts 5 

Hearts 4 
Spades 3 
Spades 4 
Spades 5 
Spades 7 
Diamonds qn. ? Spades' 8 
Spnd'S Icuatre Spades 10 
Spades king- Spud is ace 

Hearts 3 

Hearts queen ! Clubs 3 
Hearts 9 
Hearts king 
Clubs 2 
Clubs 4 
Spades 6 
Diamonds 6 
Diamonds 9 

Spades q 

An Unpublished Letter of John Ruskin. 

We are glad to be in a petition to publish the following 
moat characteristic letter, addressed to Colonel Bruce, 
King Edward's tutor at Woolwich, as its direct bearing 
upon events of the present day makes its appearance 
singularly opportune* The letter, which it now in the 
possession of Captain Caddell, reads as follows: — 

Denmark Hill, 
My Dear Sir, 2nd January, 1864. 

I do not know when I have had a New Year's letter 
that gave me more pleasure than this of yours, for 
many reasons, but I can't say a word more to-day than 
that I'll keep any day during the whole month, that you 
tell me, free for you and Captain Brackenbury. 

I will not make any engagement, after the 1 2th, till I 
hear from you. You soldiers are the life of England just 
now, but I wonder when it will come into your heads 
that you were never meant to be blown out of engines, 
nor to fight by chemistry. Some day Europe may 
perhaps perceive, must perceive in due time, but perhaps 
by fearful teaching, that civilized nations should settle 
their quarrels as civilized men do, on terms, and with 
choice of weapons, and that to fight with Greek fire 
and rams and any others of your cursed Woolwich 
apparatus is just as if two gentlemen, instead of fighting 
with sword or pistol, went each first to his apothecary 
to fill his pockets with nitric acid and fulminating silver, 
to be thrown in his antagonist's face. Do you know, if 
you don't mend your manners you'll soon come to 
poisoned bullets. You're all straight on the way to it. 
Always faithfully yours, 

J. Ruskin. 

cpk-w£ c:: fta 

, /V*A, 


co-^-6 'f. 

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~KJh J CvJh-rc^ * <us~L a-^ tr^Co^ 
<#^ XL** 4 fk ^fx *^ -^j '^^ 

4L* /i* til J ^*~\ /^rw jw 



*tr«JU+ ur^A^ *3 ^-** 


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U^JL, M.*Jr> 


•^ STL <u-i ^ ■> *■*- ^~^ 



XI y^ — h 


^^a^x ^o—izr. -i ^ 


• w-t^f- *"~*JL - ^W-^ C^-i tK f*~&+ 


Original fro., 



\ We shall be «lad to receive Contributions to this section* and la pay jor such as are accepted.] 

A WESTERN riding dub 
celebrated the wedding of 
two of its members in true cow- 
boy style, the ceremony being 
held in the open, with bride, 
< M Toom, clergyman, arid witnesses 
all on hursebacL The costume 
of the club is the frontier regalia 
of sombrero, chaps, silk shirt, 
i*nd neckcloth for the men ; 
and for the fjirls a similar cos- 
t unit.*, with u divided skirt re- 
placing the chap*. The equip- 
ment of the ponies is also 
in true Western style. 
■ Mr, C L, Edhohn, H53> 
West 36th Place*, Los Angeles, 

* iid^w^M 

* l * fcV ~^s/^HUli \* jt 

JUL' -• jJ *^**^j»=*= 


Cal., U.S.A* 


OU have from time to time published many 
curiously-addressed envelopes, but I think yoii 


C%£ ?an^uL-i. Mho &**<> ■?&*/- 



ettjcr^Mjt €t fait* &">* 

■ , # i4/t^iJr* -y &* ?** 1 *$**- 

: I ,&u t-;£r. ^,w a#*, : ** *^^^ 2 

\J.^..&*&<*^££*Lte<£&±^* , J 

will consider the accompanying specimen well worthy 
of beinjr added to the collection. — Mr. William 
Muddern, Librarian, Public Library, Newton Abbot* 


HAT there are hitherto unsuspected possibilities 
in old cotton-reels is shown by t his j 3im1 ^tliiu 

of a table unci chair made largely from * collection nf 
assort ed -sized reets. The spools are thread ;d on ro 
iron rod r which is. then bent into the required shape* 
And, of course, many things besides tables and chairs 
can be made bv a capable handy -man. The two 
articles of furniture shown are thoroughly substan- 
tial, and have stood the test of three ycarV constant 
wear* — Mr* E. Sharp, Back Lane, Balsham, near 


THE words in black type in the following solution 
are the answers to the Anagrams our readers 
were asked to decipher last month : — 

My dear Henrietta, — 

I have enjoyed the visit with my old class* 
mate, in spite of a little nostalgia. There is 
not much to do here but chatter over school 
days, which, while entertaining, sometimes 
proves wearisome. You know John is & sort of 
bibliomaniac. To illustrate— to- day he drifted 
on mythology, and gave me the romance of 
Andromeda, which was interesting. 

Briefly, this enchantress was the recog~ 
nized beauty of that time. Once while contesting 
for supremacy with the daughter of Saturn and the 
Nci rides, they, fearing defeat, had her abducted, 
chained to a promontory t and left to her fate with 
Leviathan. This despicable malevolence 
was, however, to be frustrated, for in spite of the 
im propitious outlook and the disheartening 
surroundings of Andromeda, already deliverance 
was ar hand. 

The devoted Perseus, quickly learning of this 
predicament, hastened in search of and soon found 
his sweetheart, disposed of. Leviathan, and. 
after severing the chains, carried Andromeda 
away to his castle, Matrimony completes the 

En spite of his idiosyncrasies, of all my old friends 
John is staunchesi, He sends you salutations, and 
says he hopes you will enjoy this epistolary effort, 
in which "he has collaborated. J trust that I shall 
not receive retribution for this infliction when 
I return next Tuesday, 

■ Youk ever adoringly, 




i Fine War Story b y Conan Doyle 


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IN the vacant hours from dinner to bedtime— it's then that 
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for amusement 

Fascinating ? — well, everyone seems to want a hand in it at once; and 
there's one thing about Riley's Home Billiards— everyone, from ten-year- 
old Tommy to grandfather, etui easily become skilful on a Riley's Billiard 
Table, And even the expert player finds that so well-finished and well- 
proportioned are Riley* s Tables that on the smallest size one can make 
the most delicate run -through stroke or long pot, and play every stroke 
with the same nicety as on a full-size table. 

Riley *s no - trouble way 
to pay. 


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To test Jiecilrety on any dining laMe, Snlid 
irtaitoflfttty, French -polished* with best state hed p 
lour trust-proof cushions, ivory or crryslnlate balls h 
jind nil ;u,ce*^>rirs included. 

Send 8/ft postal order to us this weiring t 
und wirhm two or three day* the v guinea 
size Riley Miniature Table (the most 
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monthly payments, sX being added to cash price. 

Cash Prices auk as i-oi 
Size 4& r 4U1. by aft. 4m. £ 3 7 6 \ 
„ $fi, 4in, by aft, mill. 4 7 € \ 
„ 6fl. 4in. by |ft 41m 5 5 & \ 
tl 7ft. 4in. by jjfL loin. 7 5 \ 
,, ftft. 4in. by 4ft. fin. /0 j 

i.oivs : — 

fir i=f> < 

jNTyjw<ur*- f 
5 jwr erHt. \ 

l*iH(/ ridd*tl I 

to m*fc ,r./i ■■■ « 1, 



/7/*yV **C*»i&ine n B£/hetd-and* 
Dining 7 able. 
Handsome as, adming-table and perfect- ai, a Billiard 
Table. Solid niahoj^ny ; \ow fro^t -proof ruboe* 
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and lowering action. Dlning-tabLe top of hi£?dy 
polished miihoK»Tiy k 

Cash Pific^s auf. as fqf.lows:— 
SiiPt ffu t'n. by aft „ loin. .., „_ ... XJJ J0 

., 6ft. 4}iit* by ju* 4*n- — £IB OO 

,, jft. 4in. by ^ft. t«n £J8 10 O 

,, ftfi. *in+ by 4ft, -tin. „ „. £24 10 

„ oil. 4tn- bj- ^ft, loin j£*J2 

fJrin IS wontMu jvi|/m^Mf#, >4«j A ^wnl, on* 

FREE ®" f™?* °f P*>*'turJ /u/f 
detailed If fait rated Catalogue 
of Milliard and Ttfmng Tables, and tmall or 
fulfill* table^ and mndfiet. 

TRY FREE- for Seven Days 

Cortdn't be a better gnnranlee of satisfaction than 

Ki ley's promise to nccepi the Tabic back if after 

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instalment at unce and make this lest quiic free, 


Ef DTT 17 V I +J Warton Works, 

London Skffwr&cms — /^7, Afatrssate Sf iy E.C. 



C^ f\r\n\t> Original from 








Illustrated by Graham Simmons* 

HE circumstances, so far as 
they were known to the 
public, concerning the death 
of the beautiful Miss Knu 
Carnier, and the fact that 
Captain John Fowler, the 
accused officer, had refused 
to defend himself on the occasion of the 
proceedings at the police-court, had roused 
very general interest. This was increased 
bv the statement that, though he withheld 
his defence, it would l>c found to be of a 
very novel and convincing character. The 
assertion of the prisoners lawver at the 

M 1 . - 12. Copy righ £ . 1 9 1 6 h I 

police-coflrt. to the effect that the answer t< 
the charge was such that it could not yet Ik 
^iven, but would he available l>efore the 
Assizes b also caused much speculation. A 
final touch was given to the curiosity of the 
public when it was learned that the prisoner 
had refused all offers of lejjal assistance from 
counsel and was determined to conduct his 
own defence. The case for the Crown was 
ably presented, and was generally considered 
to be a very dsi mning one, since it showed 
very clearly that the accused was subject to 
fits of jealousv, rnd he had already been 



CAUSE," ' tS 

The prisoner listened to the evidence 
without emotion, and neither interrupted 
nor cross- questioned the witnesses. 
Finally 3 on being informed that the time 
had come when he might address the 
jury, he stepped to the front of the 
dock. He was a man of striking appear- 
and, swarthy, black- mousturhed, ner- 
vous, and virile, with a quietly confident 
maimer* Taking a paper from his pocket 
he read the following statement, which 
made the deepest impression upon the 
crowded court :— 

1 would wish to say, in the firet place, 
gentlemen of the jury, that, owing to 
the generosity of my brother officers, 
-for my own means are limited — I 
might have been defended to-day by 
the first la lent of the Bar. The reason 
I have declined their assistance arid 
have determined to fight my own case 
is not that I have any confidence in my 
own abilities or eloquence, but it is 
because I am convinced that a plain, 
straightforward talc, coming direct from 
the maa f whp. lias |)een,th^ .tragic actor in 

thP I at&AhA MfltaftL H^fl n i mpress ym 



more than any indirect statement could do. 
If I had felt that I were guilty I should 
have asked for help. Since, in my own 
heart, I believe that I am innocent, I am 
pleading my own cause, feeling that my 
plain words of truth and reason will have 
more weight with you than the most learned 
and eloquent advocate. By the indulgence of 
the Court I have been permitted to put my 
remarks upon paper, so that I may repro- 
duce certain conversations and be assured of 
saying neither more nor less than I mean. 

It will be remembered that at the trial at 
the police-court two months ago I refused 
to defend myself. This has been referred to 
to-day as a proof of my guilt. I said that 
it would be some days before I could open 
my mouth. This was taken at the time as 
a subterfuge. Well, the days are over, and 
I am now able to make clear to you not only 
what took place, but also why it was impossible 
for me to give any explanation. I will tell 
you now exactly what I did and why it was 
that I did it. If you, my fellow-countrymen, 
think that I did wrong, I will make no com- 
plaint, but will suffer in silence any penalty 
which you may impose upon me. 

I am a soldier of fifteen years' standing, a 
captain in the Second Breconshire Battalion. 
I have served in the South African Campaign 
and was mentioned in despatches after the 
battle of Diamond Hill. When the war 
broke out with Germany I was seconded 
from my regiment, and I was appointed as 
adjutant to the First Scottish Scouts, newly 
raised. The regiment was quartered at 
Radchurch, in Essex, where the men were 
placed partly in huts and were partly billeted 
upon the inhabitants. All the officers were 
billeted out, and my quarters were with Mr. 
Murreyfield, the local squire. It was there 
that I first met Miss Ena Gamier. 

It may not seem proper at such a time and 
place as this that I should describe that lady. 
And yet her personality is the very essence 
of my case. Let me only say that I cannot 
believe that Nature ever put into female 
form a more exquisite combination of beauty 
and intelligence. She was twenty-five years 
of age, blonde and tall, with a peculiar 
delicacy of features and of expression. I 
have read of people falling in love at first 
sight, and had always looked upon it as an 
expression of the novelist. And yet from 
the moment that I saw Ena Gamier life held 
for me but the one ambition — that she 
should be mine. I had never dreamed 
before of the possibilities of passion that 
were within me. I will not enlarge upon the 

subject, but to make you understand my 
action — for I wish you to comprehend it, 
however much you may condemn it — you 
must realize that I was in the grip of a frantic- 
elementary passion which made, for a time, 
the world and all that was in it seem a small 
thing if I could but gain the love of this one 
girl. And yet, in justice to myself, I will 
say that there was always one thing which I 
placed above her. That was my honour as, 
a soldier and a gentleman. You will find it, 
hard to believe this when I tell you what 
occurred, and yet— though for one moment 
I forgot myself — my whole legal offence 
consists in my desperate enjleavour to 
retrieve what I had done. 

I soon found that the lady was not insensible 
to the advances which I made to her. Her 
position in the household was a curious one. 
She had come a year before from Montpelier, 
in the South of France, in . answer to an 
advertisement from the Murreyfields in order 
to teach French to their three young children. 
She was, however, unpaid, so that she was 
rather a friendly guest than an employee. 
She had always, as I gathered, been fond of 
the English and desirous to live in England, 
but the outbreak of the war had quickened 
her feelings into passionate attachment, for 
the ruling emotion of her soul was her hatred 
of the Germans. Her grandfather, as she 
told me, had been killed under very tragic 
circumstances in the campaign of 1870, and 
her two brothers were both in the French 
army. Her voice vibrated with passion 
when she spoke of the infamies of Belgium, 
and more than once I have seen her kissing 
my sword and my revolver because she hoped 
they would be used upon the enemy. With 
such feelings in her heart it can be imagined 
that my wooing was not a difficult one. I 
should have been glad to marry her at once, 
but to this she would not consent. Even- 
thing was to come after the w^r, for it was 
necessary, she said, that I should go to 
Montpelier and meet her people, so that 
the French proprieties should be properly 

She had one accomplishment which was 
rare for a lady : she was a skilled motor- 
cyclist. She had been fond of long, solitary 
rides, but after our engagement I was occa- 
sionally allowed to accompany her. She was 
a woman, however, of strange moods and 
fancies, which added in my feelings to the 
charm of her character. She could be tender- 
ness itself, and she could be aloof and even 
harsh in her manner. More than once she 
had rilfoH&if ft&lT'Y fli^^KWI'-J^Hh no reason 



given, and with a quick, angry flash of her 
eyes when I asked for one. Then, perhaps, 
her mood would change and she would 
make up for this unkindness by some ex- 
quisite attention which would in an instant 
soothe all my ruffled feelings. It was the 
same in the house. My military duties were 
so exacting that it was only in the evenings 
that I could hope to see her, and yet very often 
she remained in the little study which was 
used during the day for the children's lessons, 
and would tell me plainly that she wished to 
be alone. Then, when she saw that I was hurt 
by her caprice, she would laugh and apologize 
so sweetly for her rudeness that I was more her 
slave than ever. 

Mention has been made of my jealous 
disposition, and it has been asserted at the 
trial that there were scenes owing to my 
jealousy, and that once Mrs. Murreyfield had 
to interfere. I admit that I was jealous. 
When a man loves with the whole strength 
of his soul it is impossible, I think, that he 
should be clear of jealousy. The girl was of a 
very independent spirit. I found that she 
knew many officers at Chelmsford and 
Colchester. She would disappear for hours 
together upon her motor-cycle. There were 
questions about her past life which she would 
only answer with a smile unless they were 
closely pressed. Then the smile would become 
a frown. Is it any wonder that I, with my 
whole nature vibrating with passionate, whole- 
hearted love, was often torn by jealousy when 
I came upon those closed doors of her life 
which she was so determined not to open ? 
Reason came at times and whispered how 
foolish it was that I should stake my whole life 
and soul upon one of whom I really knew 
nothing. Then came a wave of passion once 
more and reason was submerged. 

I have spoken of the closed doors of her life. 
I was aware that a young, unmarried French- 
woman has ( usually less liberty than her 
English sister. And yet in the case of this 
lady it continually came out in her conversa- 
tion that she had seen and known much of the 
world. It was the more distressing to me as 
whenever she had made an observation which 
pointed to this she would afterwards, as I 
could plainly see, be annoyed by her own 
indiscretion, and endeavour to remove the 
impression by every means in her power. We 
had several small quarrels on this account, 
when I asked questions to which I could get 
no answers, but they have been exaggerated 
in the address for the prosecution. Too much 
has been made also of the intervention of 
Mrs. Murreyfield, though I admit that the 

quarrel was more serious upon that occasion. 
It arose from my finding the photograph of a 
man upon her table, and her evident confusion 
when I asked her for some particulars about 
him. The name •' H. Vardin " was written 
underneath — evidently an autograph. I was 
worried by the fact that this photograph had 
the frayed appearance of one which has been 
carried secretly about, as a girl might conceal 
the picture of her lover in her dress. She 
absolutely refused to give me any informa- 
tion about him, save to make a statement 
which I found incredible, that it was a man 
whom she had never seen in her life. It was 
then that I forgot myself. I raised my voice 
and declared that I should know more about 
her life or that I should break with her, even 
if my own heart should be broken in the 
parting. I was not violent, but Mrs. Murrey- 
field heard me from the passage, and came into 
the room to remonstrate. She was a kind, 
motherly person who took a sympathetic 
interest in our romance, and I remember that 
on this occasion she reproved me for my 
jealousy and finally persuaded me that I had 
been unreasonable, so that we became recon- 
ciled once more. Ena was so madly fas- 
cinating and I so hopelessly her slave that 
she could always draw me back, however much 
prudence and reason warned me to escape 
from her control. I tried again and again 
to find out about this man Vardin, but was 
always met by the same assurance, which she 
repeated with every kind of solemn oath, that 
she had never seen the man in her life. Why 
she should carry about the photograph of a 
man — a young, somewhat sinister man, for 
I had observed him closely before she snatched 
the picture from my hand — was what she either 
could not, or would not, explain. 

Then came the time for my leaving Rad- 
church. I had been appointed to a junior 
but very responsible post at the War Office, 
which, of course, entailed my living in London. 
Even my week-ends found me engrossed with 
my work, but at last I had a few days' leave 
of absence. It is those few days which have 
ruined my life, which have brought me the 
most horrible experience that ever a man had 
to undergo, and have finally placed me here 
in the dock, pleading as I plead to-day for 
my life and my honouff 

It is nearly five miles from the station to 
Radchurch. 9he was there to meet me. It 
was the first time that we had been reunited 
since I had put all my heart and my soul upon 
her. I cannot enlarge upon these matters, 
gentlemen. You will either be able to syTn- 
pathi;^|\*f^5|"|ajfi^pijj'iders;t9nd the emotions 



which overbalance a man at such a time, or 
you will not. If you have imagination, you 
will. If you have not, I can never hope to 
make you see more than the "bare fact. 
That bare fact, placed in the baldest language, 
is that during this drive from Radchurch 
Junction to the village I was led into the 
greatest indiscretion — the greatest dishonour, 
if you will — of my life. I told the woman a 
secret, an enormously important secret, which 
might affect the fate of the war and the lives of 
many thousands of men. 

It was done before I knew it — before I 
grasped the way in which her quick brain 
could place various scattered hints together 
and weave them into one idea. She was 
wailing, almost weeping, over the fact that 
the allied armies were held up by the iron 
line of the Germans. I explained that it 
was more correct to say that our iron line 
was holding them up, since they were the 
invaders. " But is France, is Belgium, never 
to be rid of them ? " she cried. " Are we simply 
to sit in front of their trenches and be con- 
tent to let them do what they will with 
ten provinces of France ? Oh, Jaok, Jack, 
for Gods sake, say something to bring a 
little hope to my heart, for sometimes 1 
think that it is breaking ! You English 
are stolid. You can bear these things. But 
we others, we have more nerve, more soul ! 
It is death to us. Tell me ! Do tell me that 
there is hope ! And yet it is foolish of me to 
ask. for, of course, you are only a subordinate 
L» at the War Office, and how should you know 
what is in the mind of your chiefs ? " 

44 Well, as if happens, I know a good deal/' 
I answered. " Don't fret, for we shall cer- 
tainly get a move on soon." 

44 Soon ! Next year may seem soon to 
some people." 
44 It's not next year." 
44 Must we wait another month ? " 
" Not even that." 

She squeezed my hand in hers. " Oh, my 
darling boy, you have brought such joy to 
my heart ! What suspense I shall live in 
now ! I think a week of it would kill 
44 Well, perhaps it won't even be a week." 
44 And tell me," she went on, in her coaxing 
voice, " tell me just one thing, Jack. Just 
one, and I will trouble you no more. Is it 
our brave French soldiers who advance ? 
Or is it your splendid Tommies ? With 
whom will the honour lie ? " 
44 With both." 

44 Glorious ! " she cried. " I see it all. 
The attack will be at the point where the 

French and British lines join. Together they 
will rush forward in one glorious advance." 

44 No," I said. 4i They will not be together." 

44 But I understood you to say — of course, 
women know nothing of such matters, but 
I understood you to say that it would be a 
joint advance." 

44 Well, if the French advanced, we will say, 
at Verdun, and the British advanced at 
Ypres, even if they were hundreds of miles 
apart it would still be a joint advance." 

44 Ah, I see," she cried, clapping her hands 
with delight. 44 They would advance at 
both ends of the line, so that the Boches would 
not know which way to send their reserves." 

44 That is exactly the idea — a real advance 
at Verdun, and an enormous feint at Ypres." 

Then suddenly a chill of doubt seized me. I 
can remember how I sprang back from her 
and looked hard into her face. 44 I've told 
you too much ! " I cried. 44 Can I trust 
you ? I have been mad to say so much." 

She was bitterly hurt by my words. That 
I should for a moment doubt her was more 
than she could bear. " I would cut my 
tongue out, Jack, before I would tell any 
human being one word of what you have 
said." So earnest was she that my fears 
died away. I telt that I could trust her 
utterly. Before we had reached Radchurch 
I had put the matter trom my mind, and we 
were lost in our joy of the present and in 
our plans for the future. 

1 had a business message to deliver to 
Colonel Worral, who commanded a small 
camp at Pedley-Woodrow. I went there 
and was away for about two hours. When 
I returned I inquired for Miss Gamier, and 
was told by the maid that she had gone to 
her bedroom, and that she had asked the 
groom to bring her motor-bicycle to the door. 
It seemed to me strange that she should 
arrange to go out alone when my visit was 
such a short one. I had gone into her little 
study to seek her, and here it was that I 
waited, for it opened on to the hall passage, 
and she could not pass without my seeing 

There was a small table in the window of 
this room at which she used tp write. I had 
seated myself beside this when my eyes 
fell upon a name written in her large, bold 
handwriting. It was a reversed impression 
upon the blotting-paper which she had used, 
but there could be no difficulty in reading 
it. The name was Hubert Vardin. Appar- 
ently it was part of the address of an envelope, 
for underneath X was able to distinguish the 
initials S.W., referring to a postal division 



of London, though the" actual name of the 
street had not been clearly reproduced. 

Then I knew for the first time that she was 
actually corresponding with this man whose 
vile, voluptuous face I had seen in the photo- 
graph . with the frayed edges. She had 
clearly lied to me, too, for was it conceivable 
that she should correspond with a man whom 
she had never seen ? I don't desire to 
condone my conduct. Put yourself in my 
place. ! Imagine that yott had my desperately 
fervid' and jealous nature. You would have 
done what I did, for you could have done 
nothing else. A wave of fury passed over me. 
I laid my hands upon the wooden writing- 
desk; If it had been an iron safe I should 
have opened it. As it was, it literally flew 
to pieces before me. There- lay the letter 
itself, placed under lock and key for safety, 
while the writer prepared to take it from the 
housfc. I had no hesitation or scruple. I tore 
it open. Dishonourable, you will say, but 
when a man is frenzied with jealousy he hardly 
knows what he does. This woman, for whom 
I was ready to give everything, was either 
faithful to me or she was not. At any cost 
I would know which. 

A thrill of joy passed through me as my 
eyes fell upon the first words. I had wronged 
her, " Cher Monsieur Vardin." So the 
letter began. It was clearly a business 
letter, nothing else. I was about to replace 
it in the envelope with a thousand regrets 
in my mind fot my want of faith when a single 
word at the bottom of the page caught my 
eyes, and 'I started as 1 if I had been stung 
by ah adder. " Verdun " — that was the 
word. I looked again. '■' Ypres " was 
immediately below it. I sat down, horror- 
stricken, by the broken desk, and I read 
this letter, a translation of which I have in 
my hand : — : 

Murreyfield House, 


Dear M. Vardin,— Stringer has told me that he 
has kept you sufficiently informed as to Chelms- 
ford and Colchester, so I have not troubled to 
write. They have moved the Midland Territorial 
Brigade and the. heavy guns towards the coast near 
Cromer, but only for a time. It is for training, not 
embarkation. * 

And now for my gTeat news, which I have straight 
from the War Office itself. Within a week there is 
to be a very severe attack from Verdun, which is to 
be supported by a holding attack at Ypres. It is 
all on a very large scale, and you must send off a 
special Dutch messenger to Von Starmer by the first 
boat. . I hope to get the exact date and some further 
particulars from my informant to-night, but mean- 
while you must act with energy. 

I dare not post this here — you know what village 
postmasters are, so I am taking it into Colchester, 

where Stringer will include it with his own report 
which goes by hand. — Yours faithfully, Sophia 

I was stunned at first as I read this letter, 
and then a kind of cold, concentrated rage 
came over me. So this woman was a 
German and a spy ! I thought of her 
hypocrisy and her treachery towards me, 
but, above all, I thought of the danger to 
the Army and the State. A great defeat, 
the death of thousands of men, might spring 
from my misplaced confidence. There was 
still time, by judgment and energy, to stop 
this frightful evil. I heard her step upon 
the stairs outside, and an instant later she 
had come through the doorway. She started, 
and her face was bloodless as she saw me 
seated there with .the open letter in my hand. 

" How did you get that ? " she gasped. 
" How dared you break my desk and 
steal my letter ? " , 

I said nothing. I simply sat and looked 
at her and pondered what I should do. She 
suddenly sprang forward and tried to snatch 
the letter. I caught her wrist and pushed 
her down on to the sofa, where she l$y, 
collapsed. Then I rang the bell, and told 
the maid that I must see Mr. Murreyfield at 

He was a genial, elderly man, who bad 
treated this woman with as much kindness 
as if she were his daughter. He was horrified 
at what I said. I could not show him the 
letter on account of the secret that it con- 
tained, but I made him understand that it 
was of desperate importance. 

" What are we to do ? " he asked. " I 
never could have imagined anything so 
dreadful. What would you advise us to 
do ? " 

" There is only one thing that we can do," 
I answered. " This woman must be arrested, 
and in the meanwhile we must so arrange 
matters that she cannot possibly communicate 
with anyone. For all Ave know, she has 
confederates in this very village. Can you 
undertake to. hold her securely while I go to 
Colonel Worral at Pedley and get a warrant 
and a guard ? " 

%i We can lock her in her bedroom." 

hi You need not trouble/' said she. " I 
give you my. word that I will stay where I 
am. I advise you to be careful, Captain 
Fowler. You've shown once before that 
you are. liable to do things before you have 
thought of the consequence. If I am 
arrested all the world will know that you 
have given away f$ft\ secrets that were 
confi^^^.QpT^,^ end of your 







career, my friend. You can punish me, no 
doubt. What about yourself ? " 

4 ' I think," said I,' " you had best take 
her to her bedroom/ ' 

" Very good, if you wish it," said she, and 
followed us to the door. When we reached 
the hall she suddenly broke away, dashed 
through the entrance, and made for her 
motor-bicycle, which was standing there. 
Before she could start we had both seized 
her. She stooped and made her teeth meet 
in Murreyfield s hand. With flashing eyes 
and tearing fingers she was as fierce as a 
wild cat at bay. It was with some difficulty 
that we mastered her, and dragged her — 
almost carried her — up the stairs. We 
thrust her into her room and turned the 
key, while she screamed out abuse and beat 
upon the door inside. 

" It's a forty-foot drop into the garden," 
said Murreyfield, tying up his bleeding hand. 
*' I'll wait here till you come back. I think 
we have the lady fairly safe." 

" I have a revolver here," said I. " You 
should be armed." I slipped a couple of 
cartridges into it and held it out to him. 
44 We can't afford to take chances. How do 
you know what friends she may have ? " 

" Thank you," said he. " I have a stick 
here, and the gardener is within call. Do 
you hurry off for the guard, and I will answer 
for the prisoner." 

Having taken, as it seemed to me, every 
possible precaution, I ran to give the alarm. 
It was two miles to Pedley, and the colonel 
was out, which occasioned some delay. 
Then there were formalities and a magis- 
trate's signature to be obtained. A police- 
man was to serve the warrant, but a military 
escort was to be sent in to bring back the 
prisoner. I was so filled with anxiety and 
impatience that I could not wait, but I 
hurried back alone with the promise that 
they would follow. 

The Pedley-Woodrow Road opens into the 
high-road to Colchester at a point about 
half a mile from the village of Radchurch. 
It was evening now and the light was such 
that one could not see more than twenty or 
thirty yards ahead. I had proceeded only 
a very short way from the point of junction 
when I heard, coming towards me, the roar 
of a motor-cycle being ridden at a furious 
pace. It was without lights, and close upon 
me. I sprang aside in order to avoid being 
ridden down, and in that instant, as the 
machine flashed by, I saw clearly the face of 

by K: 



the rider. It was she — the woman whom I 
had loved. She was hatless, her hair stream- 
ing in the wind, her face glimmering white 
in the twilight, flying through the night like 
one of the Valkyries of her native land. She 
was past me like a flash and tore on down 
the Colchester Road. In that instant I 
saw all that it would mean if she could reach 
the town. If she once was allowed to see 
her agent we might arrest him or her, but 
it would be too late. The news would have 
been passed on. The victory of the Allies 
and the lives of thousands of our soldiers 
were at stake. Next instant I had pulled out 
the loaded revolver and fired two shots after 
the vanishing figure, already only a dark 
blur in the dusk. I heard a scream, the 
crasliing of the freaking cvcle, and all was 

I need not tell you more, gentlemen. You 
know the rest. When I ran forward I 
found her lying in the ditch. Both of 
my bullets had struck her. One of them 
had penetrated her brain. I was still 
standing beside her body when Murreyfield 
arrived, running breathlessly down the road. 
She had, it seemed, with great courage and 
activity scrambled down the ivy of the wall ; 
only when he heard the whir of the cycle 
did he realize what had occurred. He was 
explaining it to my dazed brain when the 
police and soldiers arrived to arrest her. 
By the irony of fate it was me whom they 
arrested instead. 

It was urged at the trial in the police-court 
that jealousy was the cause of the crime. I 
did not deny it, nor did I put forward any 
witnesses to deny it. It was my desire that 
they should believe it. The hour of the 
French advance had not yet come, and I 
could not defend myself without producing 
the letter which would reveal it. But now 
it is over — gloriously over — and so my lips are 
unsealed at last. I confess my fault — my very 
grievous fault. But it is not that for which 
you are trying me. It is for murder. I should 
have thought myself the murderer of my own 
countrymen if I had let the woman pass. 

These are the facts, gentlemen. I leave 
my future in your hands. If you should 
absolve me I may say that I have hopes of 
serving my country in a fashion which will 
atone for this one great indiscretion, and will 
also, as I hope, end for ever those terrible 
recollections which weigh me down. If you 
condemn me, I am ready to face whatever 
you may think fit to inflict. 


SIK j. M. BAKR1E. 
Pftoio. Bertsfuril. 



\}Ve propose to publish from time to time other articles of this 

kind concerning eminent people.] 

Although one of the best-known and 
best- loved of authors, whose books and 
plays have given delight to thousands, the 
personality of Sir J. M. Barrie has always 
been something of an enigma. What 
do we know of the man himself? 
Practically nothing. His reticence and 
love of retirement have given birth to a 
number of more or less authenticated 
stories, from which one endeavours to 
conjure up a portrait of the man. It is 
told, for instance, that once at a public 
dinner he asked his neighbour, after the 
formal remarks, " Do you feel like talk- 
ing?" " No," was the brief reply from 

the other literary celebrity, " No more 
do 1/ J said Sir James, and forthwith they 
went through the long meal in silence. 

Another story relates to one of his rare 
speeches -this rime at a dinner given in 
honour of Mr. P. F. Warner when he 
returned from Australia with the "Ashes.' 
u 1 have only seen Mr, Warner play 
twice/' said the author of 4t Peter Pan," 

The first time he scored one; on the 
second occasion he — er — was not so 
successful I " 

Another story is rold concerning Mr. 
Bernard Shaw s -pt«f r n, Ao/Jrocles and 
the LitW. wt Wh^ffll4-pl6p l ^as finished 



Mr Shaw read it over to Sir James 
Barrie F who gave ah approving verdict, 
" But what am I to do about the Lion 7" 
asked G.B.S, Sir James reflected for a 
few moments, then he startled his com** 
pan ion by saying, I" II let you have a Lion 
on one condition — that you let me have 
him back by Christmas!" And he ex- 
plained that he had in mind Edward 
Sill ward* who has played the dog 
Nana in " Peter Pan ft well over a 
thousand times; and, although he was 
willing to suggest a Lion to his friend, 
his caution prompted him to add the con- 
dition that Sillward should be free for 
M Peter Pan " at Christmas* 

Sir Jame> is said to tell the follow- 
ing amusing story himself, A certain 
theatrical " star " fell ill, and his understudy 
was suddenly called upon to play the 
part. The understudy, scorning false 
modesty, dispatched telegrams to all the 
critics and others interested in the drama,, 
informing them that he would be appear- 
ing that evening. In the afternoon Barrie 
was at a certain club frequented by 

dramatic critics. ' Did any of you receive 
a telegram from X, to-day? "he asked. 
They all had, "What did you do?" 
They had not answered it, of course. 
Had Barrie replied ? * Yes/' said Barrie. 
rf What did you say ? " "I wired : 
1 Thanks for the warning 1 f 

Another good story which he lells 
against himself refers to a lady of 
his acquaintance who had taken a 
friend to see one of his plays, and, quite 
astonished, he asked her why she 
had done so. HJ Oh/' was the reply, 
"the theatre is in such a quiet street for 
the horses I " 

Such are a few of the traditional Barrie 
stories. With the idea of throwing some 
fresh light on the character of the author 
of " Peter Pan/' we have asked a number 
of eminent persons who have been 
brought into close personal relations with 
Sir James Barrie to relate some personal 
.experience, or tell us a story, for the 
accuracy of which they can vouch* 
The following most interesting article 
is the result 



H A V E 

known Sir 
James Bar- 
rie for so 
many years that 
I can think of all 
sorts and kinds 
oi examples of 
his humour, and 
still more ex- 
amples of his 
k in dness. In- 
deed, I think 
those wonderful 
lines he wrote, 
'Those w h o 
bring happiness 
into the lives of 
others cannot 
keep it from 
themselves/ 9 must apply as forcibly to him 
as to anyone in the world, for he is never 
quite so happy as when doing something to 
help someone else. 

But of the many stories which cro^s my 
mind perhaps the most typically li Barrie-ish JJ 
occurred one day when I was rehearsing the 
part of Maggie Shand in (t What Every Woman 
Knows. 1, Just before the rehearsal started 


I was sitting with Sir James in the stalls, and 
he was telling me with such wonderful wealth 
of detail the sort of girl the real Maggie 
Shand would have been that I eould almost 
feel that I knew . her in real life, I could 
imagine her wonderful resource h never-f&ilirg 
tact , unfailing sympathy, deeply affectionate 
nature — in fine, as Sir James talked, I almost 
felt as if Maggie Shand was in the theatre, so 
wonderfully life-like a portrait was he paint- 
ing for me, 

' What a wonderful womaii Maggie must 
have been ! " I said, enthusiastically, when 
Sir James had finished his word-picture of 
the heroine I was to create. 

u Qh, no ! " he said, with a twinkle in his 
eye ; " just an average Scotch lassie." 


There are many stories I could tell in 
illustration of Sir James Barrie's kindliness, 
humour, and love of children. He possesses 
that rare charm which endears him immedi- 
ately to all those who have the privilege 
of acting in his plays, while incidents that 
would not improtmbly arouse in many 
dramatists and producers a feeling of irasci- 
bility, in Jhis .case are invariably greeted 
with un failing calm and serenitv. 

Sob*HVSfi»JY ^qVilGMSANhi* successful 




comedy , " Little Mary/' was produced at 
Wyndham's Theatre, the chief parts were 
sustained by Sir John Hare and myself. 
The dress rehearsal had parsed off satis- 
factorily, but there was to be another call 
before the opening performance to make 
certain that all was well and that nothing was 
to be left to chance, 

had not be?n informed of this extra 

rehearsal, and 
with the object 
of getting a 
little fresh air 
between the 
calls had gone 
for a short spin 
on my bicycle 
without, u n - 
forluna tely, 
having i n - 
formed anyone 
that I should 
he away from 
the theatre for 
an hour or two. 
All members 
of the cast duly 
assembled, save 
myself. But I 
was nowhere to be found, in spite of the 
assiduous endeavours made to ascertain my 

Great consternation was naturally caused 
in the theatre j for, as I was playing a leading 
part, my absence was, to put it mildly, more 
than a little inconvenient^ especially as no 
one had seen me go and no one knew 
when I might return. 

From the stage-doorkeeper to the small 
Cockney who fulfilled the duties of call-boy 
and prompter, every endeavour was made 
to track me down— but on this particular 
occasion every searcher " drew blank/' 

At last Sir James was tremblingly informed 
of my absence, but this incident , which had 
caused so many anxious moments in the 
theatre, entirely failed to upset his habitual 

11 Ah, well/' he quietly re marked , " the 
prompter knows the words ! " 


Sir James Rarrie is always most punctilious 
at attending rehearsals, and follows every 
detail with the most faithful attention. 
Whether progress is fast or slow, whether 
things are going well or badly— it is all the 
^me to him ; nothing short of a raid by hostile 
aircraft or an earthquake in the immediate 

Photo. & Q. floppi. 

vicinity of the 
theatre would, 
I think , disturb 
his imperturb- 
a blc serenity. 
He just en- 
sconces himself 
comfortably in 
a chair or stall, 
lights his pipe, 
and sits there 
smoking, calm 
and unper- 

But I do re- 
member one 
occasion when 
he was a little 
4i upset " both 
in the figurative 

and literal sense of the word. This occurred 
during the rehearsals of 4 * The Little Minister " 
at the Hay market, where a special platform 
bad I seen built over the orchestra in order 
that Sir James might more conveniently 
supervise the rehearsals, as sometimes from 
the stalls it is difficult to follow every detail. 

If memory serves me, we must have been 
rehearsing for a couple of hours or so, during 
the whole of which time Sir James quietly 
Siit on hi- throne/' scarcely ever uttering a 
word, except when finding it necessary to 
point out some little detail which lent itself 
to improvement. * • 

Of course, most people at some time- 
or another must have seen M The Little. 
Minister/' and will probably remember that 
in the course of the play tjie, line occurs : 
h In the midst of life we are in death/ 5 

It happened to fall to my lot to speak these 
words. As I did so, by almost the most 
amazing coincidence that can ever have 
happened, the flooring of the platform 
whereon Sir James sat gave way, and he and 
his chair disappeared into the orchestra: 

In a few seconds he emerged from his 
peremptory retirement , and was heard to 
murmur philosophically, ' Evidently/' 


As Peter Pan I failed to grow up for 
many years, during which said years I met 
Sir fames Harrie so often that I can think of 
hundreds of li Harrie " stories. Perhaps the 
l>est and most characteristic, however, con- 
cerns bis wonderful affection for each and 
every chil^;[|t^ picture 

him to-day sitting in some secluded corner 

I 2b 


PkvUi. JT. 0. Noppt, 

beh i n d the 

scenes telling 
the kiddies 
stories j asking 
them riddles, 
and arranging 
tea - parties for 

Sir James 
llarrie, I must 
tell you, was 
part i c u 1 a r 1 y 
fond of pro- 
pounding con- 
undrums for his 
little friends to 
unravel. Per- 
sonally I am the 
greatest dunce 
in the world at 
both puzzles and riddles, and never guess the 
right answer, but some of the other 4l chil- 
dren " are ever so much sharper, andj even if 
they don't happen to light upon the correct 
11 hooky " solution, they at least provide 
replies which possess the merit of being dis- 
tinctly convincing. 

ThuSj one afternoon, Sir James was talking 
to a tiny mite who was standing looking very 
forlorn ? waiting to go on the stage. After 
asking her name, agt% and so on and so forth, 
he said, i4 Do you like riddles ? " "I loves 
'em/' said the child, her big blue eyes growing 
bigger in the delightful expectation of having 
a riddle to answer. Ll Then I wonder if you 
can tell me why a miller wears a white hat ? " 
said Sir James ? smilingly, evidently having 
decided to give^he tiny tot an easy one to 
commence with. The child thought for a 
moment with puckered brows. Then she 
replied excitedly, " In course I do." " Why ? ?1 
said he. ' 'Cos the man who sells hats had 
sold out of all other colours," she replied; 
decisively. And who will dare say that her 
information was wrong? Between ourselves, I 
may tell you that I don't think Sir James 
has ever put another conundrum to that child, 
for he seemed to realize that she possessed a 
soul above such simple childish queries. 


I did not witness the incident myself, but 
a friend who saw it vouches for its accuracy* 
At one of the rehearsals of +i Rosy Rapture " 
you may remember that in a film which was 
thrown on the screen a " runaway baby " 
is shown who, during the course o£ * L its " 
vild flight, looks very much like meeting 
A'ith a serious accident. 

Photo. E. O Bwpri. 

Now, Sir 

James Ba Trie's 
d r e n is well 
known, and at 
the first re- 
hearsal, when 
this particular 
scene was 
thrown on the 
screen, an 
officious stran- 
ger, who hap- 
pened t o b e 
present and sit- 
ting a few stalls 
away from the 
author, noticed 
that as he 
watched the 
incident a pained look came over his face, 

A few seconds later Sir James got up from 
his stall and was about to go round to the 
back of the stage when the said officious 
stranger tapped him on the arm and said, 
* E Excuse me, sir, but you seem a little afraid 
that that child you have just seen an the 
screen will meet with an accident — I noticed 
how nervous you looked/' and then, evidently 
trying to be supremely funny, he added. Mill 
more officiously, ** It's only a scene on the 
film, you know — it isn't a real incident/' 

Evidently thinking that this harmless 
but officious lunatic required a slight rebuff ^ 
Sir James sat down again with a sigh, and -aid 
with frigid politeness, i+ Thank you. What 
a relief I I thought it was ! " 


The rehearsals for the LSarrie plays I have 
acted in provide some of I he most pleasant 

memories of my 
theatrical career. 
Sir James pos- 
sesses i he tare 
gift of sympathy 
tn an extra- 
t rdinary degree, 
and this, com- 
bined with his ex- 
quisite humour 
and never- 
failing sense of 
humour — mak:s 
acting in his 
plays one of the 
most agreeable 



and every rehearsal of that atmosphere of 
formality imparted by some dramatists, 

I always see Sir James, when thinking 
over the delights of these rehearsals, as a 
kindly, unobtrusive personality , sitting quietly 
in a corner j always smoking a large pipe, 
and following every incident with silent 
appreciation. When he does make an occa- 
sional remark, however, it is certain to be 
pithy and to the pointy as I think the follow- 
ing little story may illustrate. 

Rehearsals of his charming one-act play, 
4i Rosalind/' were in full swing, and at the 
outset certain Scotch colloquialisms, which 
almost inevitably find their way into so many 
of his plays, were apparently unintelligible to 
some of those present, who gathered together 
here and there, asking each other what on 
earth the interpretation of such and such an 
expression might mean. 

One of these, which was afterwards widely 
quoted in the Press, was the famous line, 

Forty and a bit tuck/' .Rosalindas reply 
to the boy's eager query regarding her age. 

" Forty and a what tuck ? M he repeated, 
puzzled by the tjuaint ending, " What's 
a what tuck ? " also asked various actors and 
actresses at the particular rehearsal I am 

Sir James, hearing the question repeated 
so often, looked up with a twinkle in his eye 
and said, with the utmost gravity, " Perhaps 
it would be more intelligible if I were to 
re-name this play, £ Forty and a Haddock I " 


Mr. Granville Barker, when running his 
Repertory Theatre, made various novel 
experiments in the art of production , perhaps 

not the least 
interesting of 
which was to 
convey inspira- 
t i o n to his 
artistes by, if I 
may so describe 
it , expressing 
the effect h e 
wished tQ be 
produced by 
drawing up a 
series of " word 
pictures. s * 

Thus , on one 
occasion 3 he 
said to a certain 
actor, who pre- 


rhet*. Eit^t *fv* not giving 

expression in quite the desired manner/'" Try 
to look as if you had just had dinner^ and had 
been listening to the inspired strains of 

Sir James Barrie presumably must have 
thought that this method of conveying 
inspiration where it f was badly needed was 
worth putting to the test^ for at rehearsals 
one day he remarked to a now highly success- 
ful actor : — '; ' 

*' Try to look as if you had just come up 
from Southend and heard that your brother 
had died at Liverpool ! " 


I could tell you a number of anecdotes 
of the famous author with whom I had the 
honour of col- 
musically < — a t 
least, I hope I 
may be allowed 
to say so— in 
the production 
of " Rosy Rap- 
ture" a short 
while ago* But 
better than any 
of my personal 
experiences of 
Sir James Bar- 
riers repartee, 
delightful as 
these have 
been , I think, 
is the following, 
told me by a 
fellow-author of note. The latter had gone 
to see a famous actress with the object of 
reading her his latest play, in which she 
seemed desirous of appearing, and there 
was a third and interested "auditor" present 
at the interview, in the person of the said 
star's little pet dog. 

This poor little chap was subject to spas- 
modic fits, no less painful for the onlooker 
than for their victim, and, what is more, he 
became so affected by the pathos of the drama 
that was being unfolded in his hearing that, 
as each successive climax was reached , he 
whs seized by u sudden attack; which effec- 
tively claimed the attention of his distracted 
mistress, to the exclusion of all else, including 
the unfortunate playwright and his master- 

At last he gave up his reading in despair, 
and, on chancing; to meet Sir James a short 

while ^fff^^F^KHf^.f'J 01 4 s woes 
(and those 01 the unfortunate dog) into the 




sympathetic car of Lis colleague. Sir James 
listened to the tale in patience ; indeed, it 
seemed as if he were not unfamiliar with its 

At last the unfortunate author, for sheer 
want of breath ? was forced to bring to a dose 
the recapitulation of his woes, whereat 
Sir James, pressing his hand in cordial 
sympathy, murmured, " Yes ; I quite under- 
stand , and I can truly feel For you — I've read 
to that dog myself ! " 


I first met Sir James Barrie— although then 
I didn't know who he was — in circumstances 

which, at the 
time, I frankly 
confess I sin- 
cerely hoped 
would prove un- 
pleasant frorn 
h i s point of 

Our meeting 
came about in 
this way. The 
garden of the 
house in which 
I was living 
hacked on to 
Sir James's gar- 
den. At the 
lime I did not 
even know him 
by name ; but 
merely as the 
owner of a dog whose persistent and exuberant 
barking caused the greatest annoyance, 
I therefore addressed a letter to the 

E£ Occupant " of , complaining of the 

noise 3 and asking that something might be 
done to restrain this canine exuberance of 

The next day came a very charming 
letter of apology from Sir James, which 
ended up by inviting me to come and see 
the dog. I did so mure out of curiosity than 
anything else, for I thought that any dog 
who could keep barking day and night, almost 
without cessation, must at least be worth 
seeing — if not hearing. 

The owner of this wonderful voice turned 
out to be the most fascinating Newfoundland 
dog imaginable, a great, big, strong, healthy 
fellow, a veritable Dreadnought among dogs, 
with the voice of a steam-engine and the 
manners of a child, who drank a glass of 
milk out of a tumbler and generally comported 
himself like a meek and mild Utile gentleman. 

Phata. F. C- Banff* 

I never remember^ indeed, meeting a dog with 
so fascinating a personality. To see him was 
to fall in love with him. And Sir James Barrie 
evidently knew this, for, as I later said good- 
bye to him, he said, dryly, "The only com- 
plaints about my dog are made by people 
who have never seen him. When once they 
have seen him all complaining ceases." 

It was not, however, until I had arrived 
home that I saw through Sir James's reason 
for having asked me to meet the dog. He 
knew from experience the effect that dog had 
upon mere human beings. And I proved no 
exception to the rule. I came to see the dog, 
saw him ; and was conquered. Anyway, he 
continued to bark as exuberantly as ever. 
but I never dreamt for a second of complaining 

Whenever I think of this most fascinating 
of dogs I cannot help feeling that he must 
have been in Sir James's mind when he 
created the wonderful Nana of tl Peter Pan." 


During rehearsals of " The New Word/' 
the father, referring to the mother's mention 
of her son's photograph " when he was very 
young/' says :— 

" Ellen, don't break down— you promised." 

The mother 
h as to replvj 
? If I break 
down, it's be- 
cause of what's 
written on the 

At this mo- 
ment the locket 
slipped from 
her neck and 
disappeared in 
the folds of 
h e r garments 
and could not 
be recovered for 
some Lime* 

Whereat Bar- 
rie j in his dry 
way, said :— 

M I think per- 
haps you had better say, f If I break down 
it's not because of what's written on the 
back; but because I can't find it/ n 


I can recall a considerable number of canny 
sayings of Sir James Barrie, His wit, like 
another product of his homeland, is essen- 
tial! v " rafirifliralb6»Bn"— and, better still, 



. Pkttta. ffutic. 




time, to master the 

it is always so 
cons istently 
humorous tha t 
the more you 
have of it the 
more you grow 
to want. 

When I was 
playing in " The 
Little Minister " 
I determined to 
do my humble 
best to impart 
the rich local 
flavour to my 
accent. Accord- 
ingly, I spent a 
week in Scot- 
land, endeavour- 
ing, during that 
dialect," On mv return 

to attend rehearsals I continued my efforts, 
and after the first rehearsal was over I 
was rash enough to approach the author 
and ask for a frank criticism on whether a 
week in the land of Burns had " put 
me wise " to the intricacies of the Scotch 

Sir James appeared decidedly pleased with 
the said accent, and told me to continue the 
good work to the best of my ability. I 
naturally did so, feeling considerably elaled, 
and on the eve of the first performance again 
made bold enough to solicit the author's 

And you can guess exactly how pleased 
I felt when Sir James replied, " It'll 
do, my boy, it'll do quite well ; there 
will be very few Scotsmen in England this 
year ! " 

MR. H. B. IRVING. "" 

Sir James Barrie, as everybody is aware, 
has let an expectant world into the secret 
of " What Every Woman Knows." But it 
may not be so generally known that this 
most versatile of playwrights and authors 
not only knows ** What Every Woman 
Knows " — that to him is the letter A in the 
alphabet of the requirements of the fair sex. 
He knows something still more valuable — 
he knows what every woman wants, and 
in any and every circumstance. 

It was at one of the rehearsals of " The 
Admirable Crichton " that I first learnt of 
this super- sense on Sir James's port. 

VoL li.-ia 

by Google 

The scene was the desert island, which 
appeared a most unsociable spot., lacking as 
it did any suggestion of comfort, while when 
we arrived there luxury was at an impossible 
premium. As you may remember, we dere- 
licts had hitherto been used to doing our- 
selves rather well, and, unpromising as 
things looked from the male point ot view, 
to the feminine mind, orr landing, they must 
have appeared infinitely worse* 

Seeing a look of despair gradually dawning 
on the faces 
of several 
actresses, S i r 
James Barrie 
looked up with 
a whimsical 
smile, evidently 
hoping to in- 
d u c e a mure 
cheerful frame 
of mind, and 
said, quietly : 
" If any mem- 
ber of the com- 
pany cun tell me 
by to-morrow 
what was the 
one and onlv 
thing Mary (the 
heroine, played 
by Miss Irene 
Vanbrugh) took wiih her when she left the 
wreck, I will present him or her with a com- 
plete set of my works." 

This competition proved enormously 
popular. We all went home guessing hard* 
And the harder we guessed, the worse we 
guessed — any way, when the solution was 
eventually discovered, we all felt most 
indifferent amateurs at the art of guessing. 

If I may be allowed to say so, however, 
with the aid of a little extraneous assistance — 
in the shape of my wife — I think I may claim 
to have proved to be the best riddle-solver 
of the company* But a love of the truth 
compels me to acknowledge that this happy 
result was solely attained through Mrs. 
Irving's feminine intuition — certainly not 
through my consummate knowledge of 
" what every woman wants/ 1 

11 In the circumstances I have described y 
what would every woman want? ,T I asked her. 

" A hot- water bottle," she said, tersely. 

I carried the books homej she still has 

Original from 

Photo. E- O, Wffjijui 

The Astragen \Vaistcoat. 

How It Ameliorated Certain Grave Acerbities in the 
Courtship of Aloysius Moriarty. 


Illustrated by IV. Heath Robinson. 

ETER GIBLIN was mooning 

by the fireside, nursing a fit 

of the blues, while he waited 

the tardy home-coming of 

his chum, Aloysius Moriarty. 

When, eventually, Moriarty 

did enter the apartment, Gib- 

lin was so absorbed in his doleful reflections 

that he did not even glance up at him. 

On such not infrequent occasions it was the 
Irishman's habit to greet Giblin with a jovial 
44 Cheero ! " and a hearty slap on the shoulder. 
This time, however, there was no slap — no 
44 Cheero!" 

Moriarty simply flung himself on the lounge 
and moaned. 

Peter Giblin roused himself and blinked 
across the room at the unwonted spectacle. 

44 What is it, Paddy ? " he gasped. 

Everybody called Moriarty 44 Paddy, " 
though well knowing that Aloysius was his 
proper name. 

44 She's rejected me ! " he replied, with a 
groan of anguish. " Cast me off for a bounder 
with a motor-car ! I'm going to cut my 
throat ! " 

This sinister announcement produced an 
extraordinary effect upon Giblin. The 
shadow of despondency vanished from his 
face as if by magic. 

44 Thank God, Paddy ! " he ejaculated, 
fervently. " Only don't cut your throat. 
That will help nobody. If you feel that you 
must put an end to yourself, why not be matey, 
and first test my astragen waistcoat ? " 

Moriarty gulped back an oath of angry 
protest. But — apart from his present sad 
predicament — he was essentially quick-witted 
and temperamentally an optimist. Moreover, 
he was very fond of Giblin. Before the oath 
was uttered he realized his friend's point of 
view. Giblin was an inventor, and his 
" astragen waistcoat," so called, was dearer to 
him than the apple of his eye. 

44 1 don't mind, Peter ! " he agreed, bravely. 
" One way's as good as another, says you ; 

Digitized by ^OOSIC 

and sure you know there's nothing I wouldn't 
do to oblige you ! " 

Giblin hastily stumbled out of his chair 
and stretched a glad hand to Moriarty. 

44 Shake on it, Paddy ! " he begged, in a 
voice choking with emotion. 44 1 always 
said you were the best pal on earth 1 " 

44 And now tell me," he proceeded, " what 
has Miss Rayner done to you ? " 

Naturally enough, Giblin knew that his 
chum had been wooing Enid Rayner for 
months past, and that he had been pressing 
his suit with all the diligence and impetuosity 
compatible with long office hours, an Irish 
temperament, and a salary of three pounds 
a week. 

44 It was Ginger Featherstone's Rolls-Royce 
that did it," said Moriarty, with quiet resig- 
nation. 44 He's a stockbroker, and rich as 
Crcesus, and he's been dangling after her for 
years back, from all I can gather, though he's 
every day of fifty, if he's a minute. What 
could a fellow do against a Rolls-Royce ? " 

44 Nothing," grunted Giblin, sympatheti- 

44 Well," continued Moriarty, " I went and 
got a motor-bike, with a side-car attachment. 
Got it on the hire-purchase system, you know. 
It was the most I could spring to. Took it 
round this afternoon to ask her out for a spin ; 
Ginger's Rolls-Royce was at the door when 
I got there. Did you ever hear of such luck ?" 
■ Giblin had not. » — ■ ' * 

44 I went in and asked if I might see her by 
herself for a moment^ and when she came 
out I showed her the bike, and told her that 
the time had come to choose between me with 
the puffer or Ginger with his car ; and— will 
you believe it, man ? — she laughed at me 1 " 

44 Impossible ! " ejaculated the inventor, 

44 Begobs ! " reiterated Moriarty, solemnly, 
44 'tis only too true. When I told her I loved 
her, she toW me not to be silly. Wouldn't 
even listen to me, only to laugh at me ; and 
laughed again when I told her she'd live to 
weep over my lonely grave." 




" Never mind, old chap/' persisted Giblin, 
with the single-minded enthusiasm of the 
true scientist. " My opinion is that you won't 
be killed at all, but that you'll achieve a fresh 
and beautiful interest in life, as well as all the 
fame you can swallow, by this really glorious 
experiment. Then Miss Rayner will lay her 
heart at your feet, instead of spurning you 
for that fat money-grubber's motor-car." 

This last remark seemed somewhat to 
hearten Moriarty. 

" The waistcoat will prove your good angel 
in a host of ways/' continued the inventor. 
4 * All in the wide world you will have to do is 
to go up in an aeroplane and jump out when 
you are a mile or so above the ground. It's 
as easy as rolling off a log ! If the waistcoat 
works properly, you won't even feel a bump 
when you land. In that case, you can see 
for yourself, the patent will be worth a cool 
million if it's worth tuppence. All the 
Governments on earth will be screaming for 
it, and one half the profits of the discovery will 
be yours." 

Moriarty nodded a trifle dubiously. The 
merits of astragen were not with him an 
article of faith, and astragen was the factor 
of safety in this wonderful waistcoat. 

This astragen was a gaseous element of 
extreme buoyancy which Giblin had accident- 
ally isolated in the course of other experiments. 
It was difficult and expensive to produce, but 
was superlatively lighter than all other known 

The astragen waistcoat, so-called, was a. 
garment constructed of an elastic but gas- 
proof material, in the lining of which were 
concealed two vials of highly-compressed 
liquid astragen. When one of these vials was 
opened — and its automatic opening in certain 
contingencies was assured by a patented 
device — the liquid instantly expanded into 
gas again, and the waistcoat swelled out like 
a balloon. It became in effect an air lifebelt, 
and practically defied the more malign forces 
of gravity as encountered by airmen, steeple- 
jacks, alpine climbers, and other daring ad- 
venturers who customarily go in peril of death 
through falling from stupendous altitudes. 

If the speed of the fall were not reduced 
at once, or some shock of collision supervened, 
the second vial opened itself automatically, 
and offered such additional resistance to the 
earth's attraction that complete buoyancy 
immediately ensued. 

" But if the gas doesn't work, or the 
waistcoat blows up?" queried Moriarty, as 
Giblin explained this pleasing process of 
automatic salvage. 

" We mustn't think of such things ! " 
admonished the inventor. 

Though Moriarty, as stated, was of a 
highly optimistic temperament, many circum- 
stances combined to depress and worry him 
during the next few days. The aerodromes 
and aeroplane manufacturing companies to 
which he applied for the necessary co-opera- 
tion and assistance were unanimous in their 
refusal to take him seriously. Some of them 
even pestered him with rude questions. 

" Supposing the aeroplane turns turtle," 
one expert asked him, " what earthly use 
would your gas-bag be to an airman strapped 
into his seat ? " 

Moriarty demonstrated how the gas in 
the waistcoat would be released automatically 
the moment the aviator reached a particular 
angle of danger, and also how patent straps 
— contrived on the well-known principle 
of the safety stirrup* — would automatically 
release the wearer in any such emergency. 
He also explained how the supplementary 
vial of astragen in the waistcoat would open 
automatically in case of any extra emergency. 
Everything conducive to safety happened 
automatically when the wearer of the waist- 
coat was in peril. 

Despite such assurances, however, the 
experts one and all scoffed at him. 

On the eighth day of the search he reached 
his last aerodrome in a condition bordering 
on frenzy. The protracted strain was sap- 
ping the optimism that had so far inspired 
his quest. 

" Cough it up, sonny ! " said the hatchet- 
faced manager, as he noted his caller's 
aspect of dejection. " What's your woe ? " 

Moriarty unfolded his proposition. 

" Nothing doing ! " said the manager, 
tersely. " If you want to test your heavenly 
waistcoat, you've got to play a lone hand, 
and paddle your own canoe to Sheol or 
elsewhere. We can't send up one of our 
own young men to kick you out above the 
sky-top, and get swung for murder prqpto. 
You must do your own dirty work ! " 

The Irishman, being personally ignorant 
of the aviator's art, had requested to be 
sent up as a passenger in some skilled pilot's 
machine, whence he could jump off com- 
fortably into space as soon as he reached a 
proper altitude. 

44 1 don't know how to work an aeroplane, 
or I'd go up on my own account like a shot ! " 
he now explained to the American. "It's 
the deuce and all of a shame that a fellow 
should have an invention like ours, and not 
be ablq , ^to.:|demon?trptfi | .i^ ^because the very 

*3 2 


men who would profit most are afraid of 
helping the experiment." 

•The manager bit off the end of a green 
cigar and spat it to a great distance. 

" Say, sonny/' said he, " we've got a 
machine here that I was going to put in the 
scrap-heap. It will bust a stay or turn 
turtle before it mounts ten thousand feet ; 
and that's about all you want ! I'll rent 
you that machine for sixpence a week, if 
you like, and I'll advertise you from Halifax 
to breakfast if you say you'll take her up 
till she bursts, and then toboggan back here 
again on the edge of a sunbeam with the 
help of your fancy waistcoat ! " 

Though this was as fair a proposition as 
any reasonable man could expect, Moriarty 
did not betray such prompt enthusiasm in 
its acceptance as the friendly American 
seemed to expect. 

" It's a good offer, friend ! " the latter 
assured him. " She'll bust as sure as God 
made little apples ; but she'll first take you 
high enough to leave nothing but a grease- 
spot where you hit the earth — unless, of 
course, your waistcoat works miracles on 
your way back ! " 

Moriarty pulled himself together, and 
expressed his most fervent thanks to the 
Good Samaritan. 

44 Cut the ballyhoo talk, sonny !■" cheer- 
fully interrupted the latter. " The ad. 
you'll give us will more than pay for the 
rat-trap ! It's a busted flush, anyhow ; 
we'll have to put a few nails in the coffee- 
mill and prop up the tractor so she'll work 
when we get the dope in her, before you can 
use her. We'll have that fixed by the day 
after to-morrow, I reckon ; and then you 
Can fly in her till she goes pop ! " 

Moriarty consented to this brief delay ; 
and then, having all -the preliminaries for his 
suicidal enterprise finally and definitely 
arranged, he decided to seek out the proud 
but beautiful cause of his desperation. 

He < found Miss Rayner at home;, and was 
at once shown into her presence. 

" I have come to bid you farewell, Enid," 
he announced, " and not to play upon your 
sympathies. I do not even ask you to mourn 
my fate. I only desire that you should 
always remember that I loved you — and 
\hat was why I died ! " 

He then lightly touched upon all the 
dreadful details of his project for testing 
Giblin's waistcoat. • • - 

Enid Rayner bent forward as she listened 
to him, her elbows on her knees, her chin in 
her hands. Her eyes mesmerized and 

enthralled Moriarty. To his great disappoint- 
ment, however, they did not brim with tears. 
On the contrary, they twinkled- 

44 You're a perfect wonder, Paddy ! " she 
rippled. " Really, I never imagined you 
were such a sky-larker ! But don't you 
think you are missing a golden opportunity ? 
Why not make a fortune out of the cine- 
matograph theatres by getting yourself 
filmed in the waistcoat ? " 

Moriarty gritted his teeth with impotent 

" Please don't make that horrid, scraping 
noise, Paddy ! " she begged him. 41 I'm 
sure I am quite right! Why, it would be 
funnier than Charlie Chaplin \ I'd give 
anything to see you doing it ! " 

Moriarty stood up and sighed. 

44 Farewell, Enid ! " said he. u I see it's no 
use talking to you ! But remember I always 
loved you. Farewell ! " 

Gathering up his gloves and umbrella, he 
passed out of the presence of his inamorata 
and into the busy street. 

As he was dodging the traffic on his way 
home, the words of Miss Rayner recurred to 
him with buzzing insistency. She might be 
heartless, but she was unquestionably as 
original as she was beautiful. 

That film suggestion was really not half a 
bad idea. It is not every day that a young 
man, in the prime of youth and spirits, hurls 
himself out of a crazy aeroplane into the 
empty vastnesses of the ether and trusts 
solely in an astragen waistcoat for his safe 
return to terra-firma. To the best of Moriarty 's 
knowledge and belief, indeed, such an experi- 
ment had never been attempted before, and 
would probably never be tried again. Whether 
it proved a success or a failure from a scientific 
point of view, it should, in any case, make 
an invaluable " turn " for a picture-show. 

The more he thought over the matter, the 
deeper grew his conviction that the record 
would be worth a pot of money to any enter- 
prising film company that might secure the 
exclusive rights. Fortified with this belief, 
he sought the biggest cinema company in 
London, and briefly unfolded his project — 
eliminating for obvious reasons any reference 
to the romantic cause of his risking the 

The manager of the concern at first seemed 
to think he was mad ; but he sat up and 
began to take notice when Moriarty showed 
him the waistcoat and handed over a copy of 
his agreement with the aerodrome people. He 
glanced swiftly over the latter, then stood up 

and smiled ber.ignlv on his visitor. 




" Will you favour me, sir, by coming out 
and having a little bit of lunch ? " said he. 
" I think we can discuss this matter much 
better over a small bottle and a warm bone." 

They went out to lunch together. Moriarty 
found the picture magnate a sportsman and 
a gentleman. He candidly admitted that 
the prospects from such a film were abso- 
lutely magnificent and unique, and finally he 
signed an agreement by which the Irishman 
secured a very handsome royalty. 

Cinematograph men know how to advertise 
their undertakings. When, two days later, 
Moriarty proceeded to the flying-ground to 
attempt his mad flight to glory, he was fol- 
lowed by a string of the firm's cleverest opera- 
tors, and a small army of reporters. 

Giblin, of course, accompanied him, and 
adjusted the waistcoat with scientific accuracy, 
as Moriarty took his seat in the dilapidated old 
monoplane which the aerodrome people were 
sacrificing: for the experiment. 

The directors of the establishment seemed 
very nervous about the contract that had 
been entered into by their manager, and at 
the last moment besought the Irishman to 
abandon his frightful enterprise. 

" My dear sir," begged the chairman, in a 
voice that was earnest but faltering, " this 
wretched machine is sure to go smash before 
you're half a mile up. It is absolute suicide ! 
I beg of you to abandon the attempt." 

Moriarty shook his head. He was not 
feeling much happier than the chairman 
himself ; but he was quite dauntless. It 
was too late to draw back, anyhow, even were 
Giblin to allow him to — a doubtful con- 
tingency. The inventor was waiting and 
watching him with an eagle eye. The 
morning papers had published screaming 
accounts of the daring project, and Moriarty 
knew full well that Enid Rayner must have 
read some of them, and would be hurrying to 
the scene. 

There was nothing for it but to go forward 
and upward, and perform a miracle or perish. 

He took his seat. The attendants, goggle- 
eyed with apprehension, started the tractor. 
Obedient to instructions, Moriarty pulled one 
lever and pushed another. The monoplane 
bumped forward, then nosed upward and 
circled wobbily for the sky. The instant its 
wheels left the earth, Moriarty felt that he 
was already half-way to Paradise. The chill 
atmosphere of that place did not reassure him. 

Up, up he went ; time and distance ceased 
to be of account. Around and behind him 
soared the biplanes that held the operators of 
the film company. 

Moriarty had no idea how he was to jump 
out of his machine when the critical moment 
came, or how to make it turn turtle, but he 
need not have troubled on this score. Sud- 
denly something cracked ! Before he could 
pull or push a lever, or do anything else, 
according to the instructions he had received 
below, the machine plunged forward on its 
nose, then turned head over heels in the most 
approved manner, and collapsed. 

The safety-straps worked to perfection. 
Moriarty was flung headlong into space> the 
maehine hurtling and fluttering somewhere 
overhead and to one side of him. 

For a little while he fell like a bolt from 
a catapult. The speed of his descent was 
terrific ; the rush of air howling in his ears 
seemed to make them red-hot. 

Somewhere infinitely beneath him was the 
earth. On that — it seemed certain — he must 
be dashed to atoms in the space of a ridi- 
culously few seconds. There was the astragen, 
of course ; but it seemed to him unthinkable 
that any human force could break the fright- 
ful impetus of his fall. He wondered how 
many seconds were separating him frcm 
eternity, for each second felt like a century. 

Never, to his fevered imagination, had time 
dragged so sluggishly. Yet he was hurtling 
through space at a rate that should have 
felt embarrassingly speedy to even the most 
placid of temperaments. 

Then, suddenly, he felt the rush of air 
ceasing. He realized that he was swelling 
enormously; at least the waistcoat was 
swelling. It was puffing out around him, 
forcing his arms away from his body, burying 
his head, like the top of a pippin. The 
metacentric disturbance that ensued, com- 
bined with the terrific momentum, spun him 
upside-down and round about. As occasion- 
ally he got a chance to glance below, he 
could see an enormous and gesticulatirg 
crowd in a roped-in enclosure in the aero- 
drome beneath him. 

The astragen had got to work ; but he 
feared that it had come too late to the rescue, 
and he vaguely wondered wculd he hit any of 
the spectators in his descent, and crush 
them to pulp. 

On his right, queer sounds like the cawing 
of rooks disturbed him. Glancing around, 
with great difficulty, he saw it was the film 
man in an aeroplane twirling away like mad 
at the handle of his recording-machine. 

Lower and lower he dropped, the speed 
abating all the time. 

He made another solemn somersault, and 
the peep he had at the earth showed the turf 




floor of the aerodrome scarce one hundred feet splintering that sounded precisely like his 

below. It seemed that he was driving on mental conception of the Crack of Doom, 

it at the rate of a million mile* a second. Moriarty opened* his eyes with pardonable 

He shut his eyes tight, and being at heart curiosity, 
a true optimist, hoped for the best. He had Ousted I titO vtAie corner of a con- 
There was a sickening crash and a sudden serva|5^||y Eft^TP^^-flME rtla^.l^uthern end of 



the aerodrome. The shock liberated the 
gas in the supplementary vial of astragen, 
and, instead of smashing through to the gera- 
niums, the accession of fresh buoyancy in 
the waistcoat was whirling him bodily back 
towards the stars. 

The sensation was extraordinary. . For a 
moment or two it almost dazed him. Then 
a great shadow intervened between him and 
the sky, and the noise like the cawing of 
rooks sounded quite close to him. . 

As he jerked himself around to glimpse at 
his persecutor, a human voice hailed him, thh) 
and shrill, through theattenuatingatmosphere. 

" Splendid, old man ! " it piped. " Corking ! 
For Heaven's sake, keep it up ! " 

Moriarty was gasping for breath. He 
struggled frantically, like an impaled cock- 
chafer, hopelessly endeavouring to turn this 
way or that ; but the weight of his legs 
held him proper end downwards, while the 
puffiness of the waistcoat kept his arms 
extended. His head, more like the top of 
a pippin than ever, was embedded in the 
voluminous outcrop of the vest, and conse- 
quently he could only see in whatever 
direction his head was pointed. 

By this time a sharp little squall had 
sprung up and was carrying him jerkily in 
the direction of an upstanding factory 
chimney, on which it seemed certain — from 
his own narrow pale of vision — that he 
would be dashed to death. He would hit 
it broadside on and burst with a bang. He 
struggled frantically in a mad effort to 
escape it, while below him the spectators — 
mistaking the tragic nature of his manoeuvres 
— cheered him to the echo. 

At the instant when death seemed most 
certain, the breeze wafted the waistcoat a 
few feet upwards. Instead of hitting the 
great chimney fairly in the centre, Moriarty 
only grazed, as it were, the curve of the 
coping round the top, and was instantly 
carried — half-suffocated and spluttering — 
into the curling volumes of black and sul- 
phurous vapours that belched up from the 
furnaces in the bowels of the unseen factory. 

On either side of the great, rolling clouds 
of black and grey the undaunted cinema 
operators hovered in their biplanes, hungering 
to re-focus their prey. 

Moriarty's apprehensions of an unwelcome 
paradise melted in a veritable realization of 
Hades. Then a cool breeze wafted in through 
his veil of smoke, and a fresh chorus of cheers 
echoed faintly from far below as the crowds 
saw him emerge from the fumes and float 
steadily upwards. by 

The shock of the second impact seemed to 
ease the balloonist's wits and to soothe him. 
The top-like whirling ceased, and he realized 
that the astragen was more potent in over- 
coming the forces of gravity than even 
Giblin had anticipated. Slowly but surely 
it was taking him to the stars. : 

Now, though Moriarty, having once decided 
upon committing suicide, had been ready to 
do so in an unusual manner for the benefit 
of science and his friend Giblin, he had never 
covenanted to prolong the agony in fn 
unnecessary manner ; and the idea of 
floating about the uttermost realms of space, 
there to wither and perish cf hunger and 
exhaustion, was as revolting to his taste as 
it was at variance with his original intention. 

The emergency that now menaced stimu- 
lated him to great mental activity. He 
recalled that in the pocket of his real waist- 
coat, underneath the safety vest, he had a 
penknife. Might it not be possible to reach 
the weapon, open it, and cut a gash in his 
aerial prison, thus allowing the gas to 
escape by slow degrees and himself to descend 
to earth again in safety ? A Rolls-Royce would 
then be a certainty — and, perhaps, Enid ! 

The problem was how to get at the pen- 

With infinite trouble he pulled one arm 
out of the prisoning sleeve of the waistcoat. 

The cinematograph operator circling about 
him, and wholly mistaking the object of his 
struggles, vigorously applauded this per- 

Presently Moriarty's hand emerged again 
through the puffy sleeve of the waistcoat, 
the knife glittering in his grip. The blade 
was closed, and it required new and great 
efforts on Moriarty's part to open it. For 
a moment or so the bright steel glittered in 
the sunlight. Moriarty yelped out in baffled 
anger as he vainly struggled to find a vulner- 
able spot wherein to perforate the cover of 
his aerial jail. 

" Open your mouth wider when you 
halloa ! " shouted the cinematograph man, 
joyously, thus spurring his victim to 
new convulsions. 

By this time, though the temperature at 
such an altitude was nearly at freezing-point, 
the perspiration rolled down his cheeks as 
he strove vainly to rip a gash in his accursed 

The blade was dull, and the elastic fabric 
yielded to it with distracting perversity. He 
turned three times head over heels in his 
wild endeavours to hack a hole in it, and 
he swore profoundly as hi turned. 

t 3 6 




" Don't stop, old man ! Keep it up ! 
Don't stop yet ! " continuously bawled the 
photographer, his face transfigured with 
supreme professional ecstasy* " Somersault 

again ! It's corking ! I've still got six 
hundred feet of film to unroll on you ! J * 
The man's eyes wm popping out of his 

head L3WW l Erl5W l teF MICHIGAN 



" Be careful ! Be careful, laddie ! Gently 
does it — don't overdo the knife-play, or 
you'll rip the treasure-chest ! " 

A particularly frenzied stab had alarmed 
the operator. He was achieving the greatest 
film record in the whole history of cinema- 
tography, and he knew it. He also knew that 
if Moriarty bored a proper orifice in that 
astragen, the whole show w r ould collapse 
prematurely, and half a thousand feet of 
irreplaceable film would Ik* missed. 

His advice was wholly lost upon Moriarty, 
who — egged on by a mad spasm of despair 
—flung the knife far above his head in the 
hope that it might drop point downwards 
and puncture the necessary hole. The 
blade glittered for an instant in the sunlight, 
fell on the expansive bosom of the waistcoat, 
and bounded harmlessly into space. 

A fervid " Bravo ! " mocked at him from 
the cinema man. 

Moriarty cursed him for an idiot ; then 
again he closed his eyes in calm resignation, 
knowing there was now nothing to arrest his 
passage to the stars. 

Minutes passed that felt like luons. He 
heard nothing, knew nothing, but the purring 
of the cinema man's plane and the clicking 
of his photographic machine. Then again 
the thin voice called at him from the far 
spaces ; — 

" It's O.K., laddie ! ^op-hole ! There's 
only another hundred feet to spin ! I'll 
signal down to the other Johnnies to come up 
and fetch you." 

The words were meaningless to Moriarty, 
He had ceased to care about the things of this 
earth. There were no motor-cars in the place 
he was going to — no Enid Rayner 

Purring like monster cats, the three salvage 
biplanes that the cinema manager had engaged 
for this possible contingency came circling 
upwards from the aerodrome to the sky, 
Moriarty heard the rumble of their tractors as 
they closed around him, He heard the loud 
and joyous shouts of the salvage men. Then 
he felt a whack, as a rope dangling from one 
of the machines flapped against the side of 
his vest. 

He knew it was too soon for him to have 
reached even an asteroid ; so he wearily 
opened his eyes to observe if possible the 
vagrom aerolite with which, he felt convinced, 
he must have collided, 

( Take a grip, old chap ! Hold tight the 
next time it hits ! "' called a voice from 
above. "Just you catch on when the hook 
passes you, and we'll tow vou back to the 
shop!' 1 

Moriarty felt something brushing against 
his side. He clawed wildly, and grasped the 
iron prong of a grappling- hook, 

11 Hold tight ! " shouted the man* 

Moriarty clutched for all he was worth. 
He held with the grip of the drowning man on 
the proverbial straw. 

The biplane vanished from his circumscribed 
patch of vision. He felt himself being turned 
upside down. Original from , u 



suddenly into sight again, and seemed to 
leap up at him as he followed in the wake of 
the rescuing biplane that was towing him 
gently back to his friends. 

Three minutes later Moriarty was standing 
on the air, tethered safely about eighteen 
inches above the ground, while the aerodrome 
people cautiously pried him out of the over- 
powering waistcoat. 

Peter Giblin, hiccoughing in the excitement 
of his joy , was fairly sobbing his congratula- 
tions and promises* 

" Half is vours, Paddv, mv bov ! *' he 
blurted. u There's millions in i't ! ?! ' 

But the cinematograph manager was the 
man of action. Sobbing was remote from 
his philosophy. 

" We've the world by the ncck ; old chap ! " 
he chortled, shaking Moriarty by the ankle — 
it being impossible for him to reach the 
Irishman's fist, " Charlie Chaplin's a back 
number ! " 

Moriarty smiled down on him a trifle 
sheepishly. He felt that — as a suicide, at 
any rate — his venture was not a complete 

" It'll be on in the big halts to-night, 
laddie," went on the magnate, " Here's 
the cheque I promised you as advance 

rovaltv when you pulled through the 

Visions of limousines and other harbingers 
of joy floated before the mind's eye of 
Moriarty as his feet touched the .solid 
ground and his fingers closed over the 
precious slip of paper. 

At that instant, from the outskirts of the 
little throng within the enclosure., he heard a 
dad voice hailing him. 

"Oh, Paddy !" Hurrah!" 

Glancing across the heads of the nearer 
spectators, he saw Enid Rayner waving him 
a splendid welcome 

With an incoherent gulp of thanks to the 
smiling cinema magnate, he made hn way to 
her side, 

14 I never laughed so much in all my life, 
Paddy/' she told him ; joyously. (t You're 
the funniest fellow on earth, I had no idea 
you were such a duck of a comedian*' 

Moriartv took her extended hand and 
held it. 

" I'm going to bay a Rolls-Royce this 
blessed minute/* said he, " and I want you 
to come and help me to choose it/' 

The natural peach- bloom deepened on the 
cheek of Miss Rayner. Moriarty felt her little 
hand fluttering in his grasp, 

fct Do you know why ? ,% he whispered, softly. 


Original from 

he FoLLoWF m-mit?M eiplanb 



For an instant their eyes met. " Top-hole, sonny ! '' The operator stood 

Then a louder cheer than ever rocked the with his machine still balanced on the rail 

aerodrome as Miss Rayner realized that she of his now landed aeroplane. " That's the 

was being kbsed by Mr, Moriarty. best-acted finish I've got for a film in all 

Click I my natural life." 




An American Reporter's Story of Climaxes and Thrills. 


A court where the presiding judge is searched twice a day to see that he 
carries no " gun " ! The procedure of such seats of justice, in which almost 
every detail makes a Britisher gasp, has an interest of its own, apart from the 
thrilling scenes of which the writer of this article presents such vivid pictures. 

VERY, big criminal trial has 
its big moments — when the 
prisoner takes the stand, 
when the lawyers make their 
summing-up speeches, when 
the jury brings in the ver- 
dict — but these come at 
spaced intervals, like the climaxes of a 
play, dividing the action of the trial off into 
separate acts. The supreme scene of all 
breaks, nearly always, with no warning. But 
when it does come, it comes big with import- 
ance for the man or the woman whose life is 
the stake in the game, and on the instant the 
atmosphere of the court-room changes. The 
reporters hunch their shoulders above the 
Press table and send their pencils racing across 
the copy paper on the hop, skip, and jump. 
The lolling jurymen straighten in their chairs. 
The judge on the Bench bends forward, alert 
and watchful. Every head among the specta- 
tors comes frontward at the same angle, like 
an assemblage at prayer. The opposing 
lawyers are on their feet, one fighting to get 
this evidence in in its entirety, the other 
fighting to keep it out or to blunt down its 
edge and cripple its force. About the ears 
of the two fencers, interruptions, objections, 
cross objections, and exceptions buzz in swarms 
like stinging gnats. From the crowd rises a 
little, subdued, humming sound never heard 
anywhere else. And the witness on the stand 
is telling, in broken scraps, the story which 
means ruin to the accused, or his salvation. 
It i? the Big Moment. 


One of the great murder trials that took 

place in New York was that of Albert Wolter 
for the murder of Ruth Wheeler. Albert 
Wolter was a half-grown immigrant boy, a 
sinister compound of ignorance and guile. 
He lived in the rear tenement on the top floor 
of a tenement house in East Seventy-fifth 
Street, with a girl called Katchen Miller, who 
worked as a kitchen drudge for seven dollars 
a week, and living on her earnings this boy, 
Albert Wolter, took his ease. His idle hands 
found some particularly bad work to do. 

In the Help Wanted columns of a morning 
paper one day W'olter read the advertisements 
of a shorthand and typewriting school seeking 
places for its graduates, and he answered three 
of them by mail, inviting the applicants to 
call. Luck saved the first two girls. One 
distrusted the look of the house and turned 
back at the door. The second went home 
and consulted her parents first ; and her 
father realizing, from his knowledge of the 
neighbourhood, that a reputable concern 
would hardly be doing business in such a 
quarter, told his daughter to stay away from 
the place. 

Finally, on the third day, which was Good 
Friday, came Ruth Wheeler, seventeen years 
old, a pretty, red-haired, blue-eyed girl, born 
in Alabama of native American parentage. 
Her father, a railroad engineer, had been killed 
in a wreck. Her mother was a refined, ener- 
getic little woman who did fine needlework. 
There were two older sisters, one the head of 
a department in a big store, and the other the 
confidential secretary of a publisher. Ruth, 
the youngest of the three, had graduated from 
one of the numerous stenographic schools that 

"""tNiWOTfa* l00king to 



work. Under its contract with its students, 
the school was bound to secure a place for 
her. On this Friday morning she went to 
the school j dressed in her best clothes 7 and 
the principal handed her a post- card signed 
with a rubber stamp, " A, A. Wolter, Secre- 
tary/' and giving an address in East Seventy- 
fifth Street, For all that she had spent most 
of her life in a populous part of the big city, 
Ruth Wheeler, to use an overworked com- 
parison , was as innocent as a child. Later, 
through the testimony, we were to get an 
intimate picture of the little household where 
the mother and the older sisters watched 
jealously over the baby, as they called her, to 
protect her from every smirching influence. 

A Fateful Call, 

Ruth Wheeler took the post-card in her hand 
and rode on a street-car to East Seventy-fifth 
Street. Two women tenants in the building 
saw her mounting the 
steps to Wolters room. 
One of them painted out 
the way to her. She went 
up the steps, and she 
^ever came down. 

That night ? after Ruth 
Wheeler's elder sister had 
traced Kuth to Wo Iter's 
flat and had brought the 
police to help her search 
for the missing girl, Wolter 
and Katchen Miller fled 
to other lodgings. The 
next day he was arrested 
— for abduction o n 1 y, 
On the third day one of 
Wolter* s recent neigh- 
bours found a bundle 
wrapped in burlap on the 
fire - escape outside the 
window of the flat lately 
deserted by Wolter and 
Katchen Miller. She culled 
her husband, who pushed the cumbersome 
thing off the narrow balcony, so that it dropped 
into the yard four floors below. Then, having 
noticed something unusual about the weight 
and feel of it, the man went downstairs to 
where the bundle lay, cast off the ropes and 
piano-wire which held the sacking together, 
and found what was left of little Ruth Wheeler 
—a headless trunk t choked, beaten, dismem- 
bered with a knife and burned with fire. 

I doubt if there ever was a crime that stirred 
New York to deeper levels. Within five days 
the grand jurv, laying aside all lesser matters, 
nad indicted Wolter for murder in the first 

degree. Within two weeks the Legislature at 
Albany had enacted a law requiring the 
managers of stenographic schools to carefully 
investigate the standing of strangers who 
applied to them for clerical help 

The Tri*J Begittt. 

In a little more than a month Wolter was 
facing a jury before judge Warren W. Foster 
in the Criminal Courts Building. In that 
month the assistant district attorney in 
charge of the prosecution, Frank Moss, had 
prepared a case that was well-nigh faultless. 
Having to rely entirely upon circumstantial 
evidence to convict Wolter, he had over- 
looked nothing and provided for evewthing. 
For example j he had more than a hundred 



physical exhibits ready for introduction at the 
proper time — fragments of bone out of a 
fireplace where Wolter tried to destroy his 
victim's body, a string or fire- blackened blue 
glass beads, a charred scrap of embroidery 
from a shirt-waist, a bent hat-pin, a patheti- 
cally small gold finger-ring, part of a corset- 
steel, a little wisp of singed hair^ even ashes 
and cinders of coal and wood, each by 
itself in a small wooden box, with a sliding 
glass top. When Mr. Moss was through with 
the identification of all these things } he spread 
them out on a long table in front of the jury- 
box, vvh^tMlt^N^y^t^CNISAN 5 * P* 1 * °* a 



week, as complete and as satisfying and as 
grim a collection of physical evidence as I 
ever saw produced in a court-room. 

The sentiment of the community demanded 
a speedy trial for young Wolter, and he got 
it. At the Press table we thought the big 
moment had been reached when Ruth 
Wheeler's sisters took the stand to tell of her 
departure from home on the last morning 
of her life, of their search for her that 
night after she failed to return, and, worst 
ordeal of all for them, to look at and touch 
some of the articles in the glass-topped little 
boxes. All of us marvelled at the brave en- 
durance that was shown by these two* 

An Interesting Witness • 

I think no one who was there will ever 
forget how Adelaide Wheeler looked. She 
was a slender, pretty girl, with a fair skin, 
which looked dead white against the back- 
ground of her black hat and black mourning 
gown, and a great coil of red hair on her 
head. One by one she took the objects 
which Mr. Moss handed to her, and in answer 
to his questions said, clearly and quietly: 
" Yes, I recognize this bow of ribbon. I tied 
it in Ruthie's hair myself that morning " ; or, 
" Yes, sir, I know this ring ; it was my sister's, 
and she gave it to Ruth on her sixteenth 
birthday. I would know it anywhere." Nearly 
everybody who was there wanted to cry, and 
a great many did cry, when she took into her 
black-gloved hands an umbrella and said it 
had been her Christmas gift to Ruth. It was 
such a simple, plain, little black umbrella ; 
just such a gift as good taste and a limited 
purse would have chosen. 

But Wolter didn't cry. He stared at the 
dead girl's sister — only a year or two had 
separated the sisters in age and they were 
said to have looked very much alike — with a 
steady, insolent stare. 

As I was saying just now, we reporters 
thought the big moment had come and gone 
when the sisters quitted the stand, after per- 
functory cross-examinations by Wolter's law- 
yers. But it hadn't. A little later that same 
day, Mr. Moss called as a witness for the State 
Dr. George S. Huntington, the eminent anato- 
mist, and now it developed for the first time 
that, with the consent of the mother, the body 
of Ruth Wheeler had been privately disin- 
terred and given over to Dr. Huntington ; and 
that he, after a series of wonderfully minute 
comparisons and measurements, was prepared 
to swear positively that the tiny pieces of bone 
found in the grate at the Seventy-fifth Street 
flat had belonged to the body which after- 

wards lay on the fire-escape, so establishing 
the complete loop of evidence necessary to 
prove the corpus delicti, the body of the crime. 
After the first flurry invariably excited by 
the appearance of an unexpected witness, 
the reporters slumped back in their chairs. 
As a rule, expert testimony doesn't make 
interesting reading, and we welcomed the 
prospect of a little respite from a strain 
that had been wearing us down fiercely 
all day. Presently it came out that Dr. 
Huntington, in dissecting the exhumed body, 
had found the missing left hand. All along 
we supposed that the left hand, like its 
fellow, had been cut off by the murderer and 
destroyed separately. Now we learned that 
the fire afterwards had burned the left arm in 
two, but that the hand was caught up under 
the shelter of the right arm hollow and 
escaped, practically intact. This point did 
not seem particularly important though, 
except as tending to show that the coroner's 
physicians had been hurried and possibly 
careless in performing the original autopsy. 
But Mr. Moss had something eke in store. 

The Denouement 

William Travers Jerome, at once the most 
brilliant, the most daring, and the most 
spectacular prosecutor I ever saw anywhere, 
would have worked up the dtnouement which 
was now at hand with studied care. He 
would have paved the way for his climax as 
skilfully as a trained playwright. James W. 
Osborne would have done the same thing ; for 
Osborne, like Jerome, has the.dramatic instinct 
highly developed. Moss, however, is of a 
different stamp, as methodical as a knitting 
machine and about as showy, but certain sure. 

Slowly, as if unaware of the sensation he 
was about to unloose, Mr. Moss produced the 
skeleton of the little hand which Dr. Hunting- 
ton had found. It was articulated and 
mounted in one of the glass-topped cases. The 
box was handed up to the witness casually 
and identified by him. The expert sat at 
ease, holding the box ifi his lap. 

" Doctor," said Moss, " did you, in the 
course of the examinations which you have 
described, find anything in Exhibit K for 
identification — this hand ? " 

" I did." 

" What did you find, please ? " 

" I found clutched in this hand six human 

" What was the general condition of those 
six human hairs ? " 

" They were naitly burned — that is, the 

^fiflivtora^ftCfih 1 away -" 



" Did those hairs, in your opinion, come 
from the head of the body which you dis- 
sected ? " 

(i They did not* They were of a different 
texture and a different colour. 7 ' 

** That is all, doctor/' said Mr. Moss, and 
sat down. 

For the smallest part of a minute there was 
a hush, and then a stir ran through the room 
like a breeze blowing suddenly into tree- tops. 
The reporters put their heads down and began 
to write like mad, turning out rush copy, forty 
or fifty sprawled words to the sheet. For 

a white worm, singed by a flame. He was 
physically shrivelling up. 

From that moment there was never any 
doubting what Wolter's finish would be with 
that jury. Under cross-examination the next 
day he tripped and tangled himself in fifty 
places, and once he teetered on the edge of a 
confession ; but nothing that he might have 
said or done could have added to or abated 
from the effect of that bit of testimony by Dr. 
Huntington. Late on a Friday night the 
jurors came in and, while Wolter's old mother 
listened in adumb agony 3 uncomprehendingly ? 
for she didn't know any English, the prisoner 
looked upon his jurors and the jurors looked 
upon the prisoner and the foreman said, 
ik Guilty," A day or tw r o later I met one of 
the jurymen, and he said to me : — 

"ft was the evidence of 
that little girl's dead hand 
that convicted Woken" 


they knew j and the jurors knew, and all hands 
there knew, that if there were hairs clutched 
in Ruth Wheeler's fingers and they were not 
from her own head, they must have been torn 
from the head of the man who killed her. She 
could not have been killed by a chance blow— 
a suggestion upon which Wolters counsel had 
been pinning his hopes of a mistrial or a 
compromise verdict. She must have met her 
death in a struggle, fighting for her life. 
Literally, Ruth Wheeler's dead hand had 
risen out of the grave to convict her murderer. 
As I ground out my story I snatched a 
quick look at Wolter. He made me think of 


The trial of ex -State 
Secretary Caleb Powers for 
the murder of William 
Goebel, Governor of Kentucky, ten 
years or so ago, was in a good many 
ways the most unique murder trial 
that has ever taken place in the States, 
Powers was the first, of all the men 
charged with the conspiracy to 
assassinate Goebel, to be put on trial. 
The State of Kentucky, always pretty 
fervent politically, hung then on the 
raw edge of civil war. The people of 
the State were divided into two hostile 
camps. One faction regarded Powers 
as the head and front of the successful 
plot to kill from ambush the Demo- 
cratic leader of theState>and clamoured 
for his conviction* The other faction 
called him a martyr to political and 
pergonal prejudice, declared that he 
was being sacrificed to the demand for ' a 
victim merely because he chanced to be 
prominent among the younger Republicans, 
and demanded his acquittal as an innocent 
and an injured man. 

On a change of venue, the trial took 
place at Georgetown , in an old-fashioned, 
hermetically-sealed, air-tight court-house, in 
the middle of a scorching hot summer. There 
were tw T enty-three lawyers in the case, 
eleven for the prosecution and twelve for 
the defence. Each lawyer had a bitter 
personal enemy on ihe other side ; some of 
them wJ#ti f ^W|elS&^ilili''jAife(ir hates and 



had two or three apiece. The trial judge, 
stern, handsome old Judge Cantrill, one of 
the last of the company commanders of 
Morgan' s raiders, and an un- reconstructed 
Confederate, had his private quarrels wjjh 
at least two of the lawyers for the defence, 
and they were good haters, both of them, who 
repaid the deht w T ith compound interest, and 
carried hair- trigger tempers besides. Many 
of the witnesses from the eastern end of the 
State were talented gun- fighters, who had 
been reared in what has been called the Pure 
Feud Belt, As between them and the police- 
force of the town the old antagonism 
between mountaineers and lowlanders 
was emphasized. The Blue Grass 
farmers who swarmed into the town 
and packed the 
court-house were 
ready to take a 
hand in the fight- 
ing if anybody 
else would kindly 
start it. A hip- 
pocket that didn't bulge with hard- 
ware made in New England was 
a scarce thing. Finally, Judge 
C a n t r i 1 1 stationed 
deputies at the doors 
to search every man 
who entered for con- 
cealed weapons. To 
show his own fair- 
mindedness in the 

matter, the judge himself submitted to 
being searched twice daily, 

A Flood of Oratory, 

The finish of the trial came in the hottest, 
driest part of August. The summing-up 
required a full week with night sessions. 
There were ten speeches in all, five to a side, 
and not a single speaker took less than six 
hours. Kentuckians love court-house oratory, 
and they came from all over the State for 
this feast of it. The sweltering little court- 
room was jammed. Men and boys roosted 
in the narrow window openings, shutting out 
any breath of air that might have found its 
way in there. The reporters perched about 
anywhere — back of the jury-box, on the steps 
of the judge's platform, and up against the 
wall, writing their stories on lapboards and 
box tops. At the wind-up we sat under rival 
human geysers which spouted forth vast 
streams of those two favourite brands .of 
Southern eloquence — the fiery and the flowery 
— night and day one solid week. In the acute 
stress of their personal emotions, some of the 

orators forgot about the case and devoted 
their time to blasting their enemies over. the 
way, I remember how old Governor Brown 
looked > swelling himself up with rage and 
contempt until he seemed nine feet high/and* 
spilling molten lava > hot ashes, and the pow-* 
dered pumice-stone of his wrath all over his, 
chief adversary, Colonel Thomas C- Campbell. " 
The Governor always was a volcanic sort o£- 
speaker, anyhow. / -" 

Colonel Campbell, though , was a veteran- 
of a hundred court-house battles himself f, 
he only sat and smiled pleasantly through 


Governor Brown's speech. And when his 
turn came, he did a little blistering and blasting 
himself. He was particularly bitter against 
the Louisville and Nashville Railroad, which 
had fought the dead Goebel, and against 
General Basil M, Duke^ of Louisville, who had 
handled the railroad's political and legislative 
affairs* Colonel Campbell charged that the 
L. and N. was indirectly responsible lor the 
assassination of Goebel, 

" I would give my right arm/" he declaimed > 
theatrical ly T l( to get Basil Duke here on this 
witness stand/' 

" And give your other arm and both your 
legs to let him go again, sub," audibly 
growled an excited old gentleman in a front 
seat, breathing hard through his nose and 
glaring. The old gentleman had fought 
under Duke in Morgan's cavalry, and he was 
prepared to fight again. The judge, who, 
you will remember, was one of Morgan's 
raiders himself^ rapped for order, but he 
didn't fine anybody for contempt of Court. 
I don't believe such a trial could have taken 

plac fiNftEMY*Ml$fi Union except 



in Kentucky , and not in Kentucky except in 
most extraordinary circumstances, 

I don't know how much of the evidence 
the jury of dazed J farmers and tobacco- planters 
still carried in their minds as they filed out 
one day at noun ; hut it took them only forty 
minutes to frame a verdict of guilty, and 
Powers listened to it calmly, while sniffing 
at a tuberose which a young woman handed 
to him just as the foreman stood up. 

Unexpected Evidence, 

But before we reached the verdict there 
occurred the scene which I started out to 
describe. In order to complete its case 
against Powers, the prosecution deemed it 
highly necessary to show that the bullet 
which killed Goebel was fired from a certain 
window of Powers ? s own office, In the depart- 
ment of the Secretary of State, on the grounds 
of the State Capitol at Frankfort. There were 
plenty of witnesses ready to testify that the 
sound of the shot seemed to come from that 
particular point ; but sound is deceptive, and 
the lawyers for the Commonwealth were 
anxious to strengthen this defect in their 
chain of prooE by better evidence. One 
morning there walked into 
their consultation room at 
one of the two Georgetown 
hotels a stranger } who told 
them something ^hat so 
filed them with joy that 
fifteen minutes later when 
court opened they put him 
on the stand , without wait- 
ing to verify his story. This 
stranger was a short and 
stoutish man, with long, 
flowing, sandy moustache, 
a round, pink nose, and a 
pair of rolling blue eyes. 
His hair was thin in front 
but long and wavy behind. 
His whole front was 
spangled over with lodge 
emblems. On his coat- 
lapel there was pinned a 
gold axe^ which didn't lack 
so very much of being life- 
size. Then and thereafter, 
during all his appearances, 
he clung fast to a tightly- 
rolled umbrella. He looked 
like a cross between a torn 
doctor and a travelling book- 
can vasser, and there was 
about him something that 
was Junny and yet pathetic. 

Vol Ji -14, 

UVLK W] I'll l.nlKpK liMH 

As in: stood to be sworn, clutrhin^ his 
precious umbrella in his free hand, Charley 
Michaelson, who had been sent to cover the 
story for one of the New York papers, leaned 
over and said to me : " In every big murder 
trial at least one volunteer perjurer turns up. 
Thus fellow here is a candidate for the job. 75 

It was the first big trial I had ever covered, 
and 1 bent and asked him what made him 
think so, 

' " I can*t tell you/ 1 said Michaelson ; " but 
after a while you get to know them. I'll 
make a little bet I'm right." 

The New Witueu, 

The new witness was named Weaver, He 
had been a barber, but had abandoned bar- 
bering to beco/ne an organizer of fraternal 
lodges with a roving commission ; hence his 
heavy display of emblems. He had come to 
Frankfort on the day of the shooting ; he 
had been strolling about the Capitol grounds ? 
looking at the buildings, when he heard several 
shots fired rapidly and saw a man fall j he 
had looked then in the direction whence the 
sound of the firing came and had seen the 
barrel of a rifle protruding from the lower 
left-hand windows of Caleb 
Power ss suite of offices. 
No, there couldn't be any 
mistake about it ; he had 
seen the rifle-barrel plainly, 
two feet or more of it ; 
had seen the smoke coming 
out of its muzzle ; had 
watched it as it was with- 
drawn and had seen hands 
of unseen bodies fumbling 
with the sash and closing 
the window,. That was all ; 
the other side might cross- 

On the cross-examination 
Weaver suffered somewhat. 
What business cad brought 
him to Frankfort ? No 
business at all — he just 
happened by and stopped 
off to set the Legislature in 
session. Did he tell anybody 
what he had seen before 
he left Frankfort ? No, he 
couldn't say that he had. 
Why not ? He couldn't say 
that either. I low long a 
time did he spend on the 
. Capjtol grounds bciore the 

B?! [**9™ , 8 juried ? ct b a 
two hours, 




maybe two hours and a half. What had 
he been doing all that time ? Strolling 
around. Just strolling ? Yes, that was it — 
just strolling. Wasn't it snowing hard that 
morning ? Well, it had snowed some. Didn't 
he mind the snow ? Oh, no ; he had his 
umbrella with'him. ' The same umbrella which 
he now held in his hand ? The same. And 
so on for more than an hour. Judge James 
Sims, the cross-examiner, managed to worry 
the stroller a good deal, but he couldn't 
show anywhere that Weaver had any preju- 
dice against Powers or any motive for testify- 
ing to anything except the truth. 

Basking in the Limelight 

The impression among the jurors must 
have been that this was a well-meaning, 
rather simple-minded person who might 
get tangled up on the incidental ends of his 
testimony, but who would not, knowingly, 
state a falsehood under oath. Eventually Judge 
Sims had to let him go. Weaver remained 
around town, basking in the temporary 
limelight, like a kitten before a grate fire. 

That night the circulation manager of one 
of the Louisville papers slipped into George- 
town, bringing with him a troupe of leather- 
lunged city newsboys and a special edition of 
his paper. The front page of this special 
edition was entirely devoted to the display, 
/• under appropriately large heads and sub- 
heads, of these indisputable facts. 

On the day of the shooting, and almost on 
the hour, the witness, Weaver, had been in 
a town clear off at the other end of the State 
from Frankfort, organizing a lodge and in- 
vesting its officers with their high-sounding 
titles and the ritual. When word of the 
shooting reached this town, he had made 
quite a speech on the enormity of such a 
thing, and then he had gone with certain of 
his newly-made brothers to the telegraph- 
office in the hope of learning fuller details of 
the assassination. Finally, a special train 
was then on its way to Georgetown, bearing 
practically the entire membership of the lodge. 
In the morning, bright and early, they were 
there— the Supreme King,, the Puissant Im- 
perial Potentate, the Keeper of the Royal Rolls, 
and all the rest, bringing with them books 
and archives, showing time, place, and date. 

I think most of us began our stories that 
morning something after this fashion. 

" The Strolling Barber took another stroll 
to-day, strolling from the county court- 
house to the county jail, and thence into a cell. 
He was accompanied by his umbrella and the 
sheriff of the county." 

Just as Michaelson told me then, there is 
at least one of them who turns up at every big 
trial. It is rare that they have a really 
criminal motive in testifying to something 
which never happened, or which they never 
saw ; some of them, I am convinced, really 
get to believe they are telling the truth. 
They are the same people who write the 
crank letters ; love of notoriety amounts to 
an obsession with them. 


The trial of Henry Youtsey, a State house 
clerk, for complicity in the Goebel murder, 
followed closely on the trial of Powers, and, 
like the Powers trial, it was held at George- 
town, too. When it was perhaps a third 
over, the judge fixed a day when, following 
the Kentucky procedure, the prisoner, the 
jurors, and one lawyer from either side would 
go to Frankfort in a body to view the scene 
of the crime and the surroundings. One of 
the reporters covering the story at George- 
town was just married. He knew the regular 
Frankfort correspondent of his paper would 
cover the Frankfort end of the trip, and he 
desired greatly to steal a holiday and take 
his bride up to Cincinnati for a day. He 
went to see Judge Cantrill, who told him that 
after the return from Frankfort, court would 
probably adjourn for the day. So the reporter 
and his bride felt safe in slipping away. 

The day at Cincinnati stretched into a day 
and a night. A famous actress was playing 
at one of the theatres, and; since nothing would 
be happening, anyhow, at Georgetown, Mr. 
and Mrs. Reporter decided to stay over, see 
the play, and catch an early train, which 
would land them in Georgetown in time for 
the opening of court. When they reached the 
station the next morning the husband bought 
a morning paper. It was the Cincinnati 
Enquirer, The reporter took one look at 
the last column of the first page of his Enquirer 
and his knees knocked together. 

An Unpleasant Surprise. 

Under a Georgetown date-line he read that, 
unexpectedly, a night session of the trial 
had been arranged. About ten oVlock, 
Arthur Goebel, the younger brother of the 
murdered Governor, had taken the stand as 
a witness and had proceeded to tell for the 
first time in any court the story of a detailed 
confession of the crime and the conspiracy, 
as made to him by Youtsey four months before 
in the Frankfort jail on the day of Youtsey's 
arrest — a confession of which no one on earth, 

wit *^frr%^ltte^ rsons in Arthur 



Goebel' s confidence, had any knowledge. 
To the newspaper men it had come as an 
absolute surprise. But this wasn't all. 
As Arthur Gcebel, acting out tlie scene 
in the jail, with minute detail, reached the 
point where he be^an word for word to 
repeat Youtsey's confession, Youtsey had 
leaped to his feet, screaming out that Goebel 
was not dead and all the devils in hell 
couldn't kill him, and then, as the court 
officers jumped forward to overpower him, 
fell on the floor writhing about and frothing 
at the mouth, finally going off into a strange 
stupor and lying like one dead. Youtsey's 
ycung wife had gone into hysterics at the 
sight of , her apparently frenzied husband 
fighting with the officers and being held 
down and handcuffed. Several women had 
fainted. In a stampede to get out of the 
narrow room, persons had been crushed at 
the doors and on the narrow stairs. And 
then, while Youtsey, mute and seemingly 
unconscious, lay on a cot alongside the wit- 
ness stand, with his eyes set in his head and 
his chained hands crossed on his breast, 
Arthur Goebel, who had not moved once 
during all the uproar, had gone calmly on with 
his amazing, totally unexpected testimony. 

All that had happened at Georgetown the 
night before — with a new reporter on his 
first big assignment ninety miles away in 
Cincinnati. Because the hour had been so 
late and the wires so crowded, the story in 
the morning paper was little more than a series 
of jerky bulletins ; but his paper was an 
afternoon paper at Louisville, and he knew 
the office would be expecting a complete 
account of the whole thing, testimony and 
all, for the first edition, going to press at 11. 10. 
A Nerve-Racking Journey. 

The train was one of those things mis- 
named an accommodation train, which 
meant that it stopped at all stations and 
hesitated in between. 

It was due at Georgetown at 10.30. Follow- 
ing the usual custom, it was late. It was ten 
minutes before eleven when the locomotive 
whistled for Georgetown. As the train loafed 
into the station, a newly-married newspaper 
reporter, basely deserting his bride of a 
month, leaped off the rear platform, ripped up 
the cindered right-of-way with his toes and 
knees, gathered himself up, and tore down 
Main Street toward the Western Union office 
as fast as a moderately long pair of legs 
would carry him. As he fell panting in at 
the open door of the telegraph office, the 
manager looked up, startled. 

" Where in thunder you been ? " he asked. 

" Looky here — I got about a thousand mes- 
sages for you from the office already this 
morning," and he held up a double handful 
of the little yellow envelopes. 

" What did you do ? " gasped the reporter. 

" Well," said the manager, " I couldn't find 
you and I couldn't find any of the other boys 
that had time to help out — all of them was 
busy with their own stuff. And your folks 
was calling for copy every half minute and 
not getting any. 

An Inspiration. 

" So, not knowing what else to do, and 
feeling that something had oughter be done, I 
took a chance. I went up to the hotel and 
got a copy of Walker's (Walker was the court 
stenographer) transcript of what happened 
last night, and about three-quarters of an 
hour ago I put it on the wire., It was sort of 
long — over four thousand words, I guess j 
but I couldn't think of anything else." 

" Let me see it, quick ! " said the reporter. 

" Too late now," drawled the manager. 
" Bancroft's just sending the last page in 
over your office loop." 

The reporter ran around behind the screen 
and scooped up the pile of typewritten sheets 
which lay just under the operator's busy right 
elbow. He ran his eye through one page, 
through another, part way through a third — 
and his heart, which had been a cast-iron 
hitching-post down in the pit of his stomach, 
jumped back up in his chest where it belonged, 
and turned into a vital living organ again. 
For it was a great story that had gone into 
the home office. Done in the official style 
of the methodical, unemotional court steno- 
grapher, it was all there — the oaths, the 
screams, the inarticulate cries, the orders of 
the judge, the ravings of Youtsey, the testi- 
mony of young Arthur Goebel, everything — 
and told so it made a more graphic picture 
of the scene than any written-out, descriptive 
account could possibly have been. 

The reporter went back and found his 
wife and resumed normal breathing. Later 
in the day he got a telegram of congratulation 
from his editor. With a fifty-word intro- 
duction, written in the office, the stenographic 
narrative had run in the paper exactly as it 
came in over the wire. And it had been the 
talk of the town. So far as anybody in Louis- 
ville knew, no paper had ever before covered 
such a story in such a way. The admiring 
managing editor wondered how the reporter 
ever came to think of it. 

The reporter didn't tell him. He hasn't 
told him yet, I happen to know, because I 





Illustrated by Thomas Somerfteld. 

T wanted but ten days to 
August Bank Holiday, and 
already the great watering- 
place of Sandmouth was 
packed with visitors. Within 
the next few days the num- 
bers would be augmented by 
perhaps another two hundred thousand, but 
Sandmouth made nothing of that, for they 
boasted that there was ample provision for 
half a million immigrants, and the boast was 

The Empire Palace of Varieties, that huge 
and luxurious theatre attached to the Winter 
Gardens, was packed with people from the 
stalls to the gallery. Not one popular 
favourite, but a dozen came forward one 
after the other and did their best, and, 
indeed, only the best was good enough for 

In the third row of the stalls Gilbert Lock- 
hart sat with his eyes on the stage. He was 
by way of being an artiste himself, but for 
the moment, at any rate, he was free to 
indulge in a little well-earned leisure. He had 
come down to Sandmouth for a brief rest 
before appearing in the Winter Gardens 
on the evening of August Bank Holiday. 
He would be the star on that occasion in the 
character of Sefior Romano, the world's 
greatest exponent on the high wire. At ten 
o'clock on the Monday night he would go 
through his marvellous performance on a 
single strand of copper wire running from one 
lofty water-tower surmounting the huge 
glass dome of the Winter Gardens to the twin 
tower at the other end. Others have done 
this sort of thing before — the great Blondin, 
for instance — but then Blondin's performance 
took place on a rope, and Sefior Romano 
traversed a taut strand of wire two hundred 
and fifty feet above the ground and absolutely 
invisible to the great audience down below. 
There was not much in the performance, 
perhaps, as such, but it was a fine exhibition 

of cool courage and daring. Moreover, it 
took place in the dark, save for the fact that 
the performer for the most part was surrounded 
by a blaze of fireworks, and at any rate the 
management held the entertainment cheap 
at the fee of five hundred guineas which they 
cheerfully paid for it. They got their money 
back twice over, for of all the draws at that 
moment attracting huge audiences, Senor 
Romano was the greatest. It was positively 
his last performance, too, on any stage, and 
the Palace people were making the most of it. 

Lockhart had not gone into this business 
from any love of it, for, as a means of making 
a living, he hated it from the bottom of his 
soul. But what can a young man do who 
finds himself at twenty-three utterly penni- 
less, without any profession or business 
training and face to face with poverty after 
a public school education and a successful 
career in the world of athletics at Oxford ? 
The sudden collapse of his father's huge 
business and his subsequent death had brought 
about this catastrophe. How Lockhart had 
drifted into it he hardly knew himself ; pro- 
bably his passion for Alpine climbing had 
been the main incentive. He had dis- 
covered that he had the art of balancing him- 
self on a rope at dizzy altitudes, and thus, 
little by little, he had found his way into the 
business. And now, under an assumed name, 
and unknown to his friends, he had become 
the greatest wireman of his time. And in 
the last eight years he had amassed the 
t nucleus of a fortune. His appearance at 
Sandmouth would be his last, for he had 
purchased a ranch in Canada, and his inten- 
tion was to go out to it in tho spring. 

But he had not met Mile, de Lara, 
the famous French dancer, at that time'. 
And this was largely the cause of his sitting 
there in that packed audience with a moody 
frown on his forehead and a certain anxiety 
gnawing at hi? heart, fpjfa was watching the 

lady ^^^f%:^to^.H hat - raceful 



performance of hers in a little sketch founded 
on the Mexican rebellion which had been 
written round her and the other star per- 
former in the shape of Leon Diaz, who claimed, 
not without justice, to be the champion rifle 
and revolver shot of the world. In it she had 
to meet first one and then two fencers armed 
with rapiers and overcome them in a hand-to- 
hand combat, holding the position till the 
hero turned up with his revolvers and his 
world-famed rifles. 

Lockhart was watching the slim, graceful, 
girlish figure in the white shirt and black 
silk knee-breeches with something like a 
dog - like devotion in his eyes. He was 
fascinated by the wonderful swiftness and 
dexterity and moved by the exquisite 
beauty of that fair face. And when it seemed 
to him that Diaz as the lover was carrying 
his privileges a little too far something like 
a smothered groan escaped him. 

Sitting by his side was a little man in loud 
checks, with " low comedian " written all 
over him. But Billy Jenks was a kind- 
hearted soul in spite of his native vulgarity, 
and Lockhart had a genuine liking for him. 
Jenks was not performing this evening ; 
like all the rest of his profession, he found it 
impossible to keep away from the atmosphere 
of the theatre. And the look on Lockhart's 
face and that smothered exclamation were 
not lost upon him. 

" Diaz is a beast," he said. " But there 
is no denying that he is easily first in his own ' 
particular line. But she don't care anything 
about him, laddie." 

" I wish I could think so/' Lockhart 

" Well, I know I'm right. He's fascinated 
her, and you are a bit slow, ain't you, old 
man ? No business of mine, of course, but 
there isn't one of us behind who can't see 
how the land lies. And he is clever. You've 
never seen what he can do with a rifle, have 
you ? Of course, there isn't much scope 
for a gun inside a theatre. But I was in a 
big circus with Diaz three years ago in Cali- 
fornia, where we gave evening shows in the 
moonlight, and, by Gad, that chap can make 
a gun actually talk as long as there's any 
light at all. And there's no fake about it 
either. He can judge the range up ;o a thou- 
sand yards as easy as a man judges the points 
of a horse. But don't you worry pbout that. 
You just go in and win, old man. I'm not a 
gentleman like you, but I know a lady when 
I see one, and the girl we call Mile, de Lara 
was never brought up to this sort of thing." 

Lockhart was silent. He 'knew that 

perfectly well. He knew that Mile, de Lara 
had been born Lucille Dare, that she was 
the daughter of a man who had at one 
time had a high commission in the British 
Army, and that the art she had learnt as a 
child for her amusement and the sake of her 
physical training had become later on her one 
means of obtaining a livelihood. And Lock- 
hart knew, too, that she hated and loathed all 
this publicity as much as he did himself. He 
had met her more than once during the last 
eighteen months, and all had looked like going 
well until Lucille had been persuaded to accept 
one of the leading parts in the sketch which 
had originally been written for Diaz alone. 

The entertainment came to an end presently, 
and the huge audience filed slowly out. Lock- 
hart found himself presently waiting outside 
the stage door for a chance of a few words 
with Lucille. He had not yet shaken off 
Billy Jenks, who was hanging about as if 
waiting for someone himself. 

" All right, old man," he said, " I'll be off. 
I can see that you don't want me. But I am 
your friend, as you know, and if you take my 
advice you won't quarrel with Diaz. There 
used to be some nasty stories told about him 
in California ; as a matter of fact, he dare 
not show his face there. I don't believe the 
beast would stick at anything. And don't 
forget that a man like yourself who risks his 
life on a bit of copper wire might form a 
tempting object for a bit of treachery on the 
part of a reckless devil like Diaz. Well, so 
long, old man, and remember my advice is 
well meant." 

Lockhart drew a deep breath as he saw 
Lucille coming towards him. There was cold 
surprise in her eyes as she saw him standing 
there. It was his own fault, perhaps — he had 
«been somewhat shy and laggard in his rcle 
of a lover — but he did not stop to think of 
that at the moment. He felt the blood rising 
to his temples and tingling to his finger-tips 
as Diaz emerged from the shadows and laid 
his hand familiarly on Lucille's arm. 

" Don't forget," he said, with an insolent 
glance at Lockhart, " that you are engaged 
to me for to-morrow afternoon." 

Lockhart kept his temper with an effort. 

" I— I was going to ask you to come as far 
as St. Everards in the side-car," he stammered. 
44 But if I am too late, why, then, I must go 
over there alone." 

It seemed to him that Lucille yielded for 
a moment, and then the cold look came back 
into her eyes again. 

" I'm very sorry," she said. " But as you 
did not mention it this morning I thought you 



had forgotten. Besides, Sefior Diaz is going 
to drive me over to tea at St, Everards in his 
dogcart. He has promised to let me drive a 
little way myself. It isn't often nowadays 1 
get a chance of driving a good horse, and 
1 should be foolish to lose such a chance. 1 * 

Lock hart turned away without another 
word* He was hurt and sore ? and none the 
less so because lie knew he had largely himself 
to blame. But he would go to St. Everanl^ 
and have tea at that charming little seaside 
village alone. And he had, too, an uneasy 
feeling that perhaps Lucille would need him. 

Accordingly, the next afternoon he set out 
on his motor-cycle about half an hour after 
he had seen the dog- cart depart and Lucille 
driving the fine thoroughbred horse of which 
Diaz was exceedingly proud. Presently he 
saw them before him on the lonely road 
over the sand dunes. And then it seemed 
to him that something was wrong, Evidently 
the big black horse had got out of hand, 
for he could see that Diaz had snatched 
the reins from Lucille' s hand and was urging 
the horse forward. Then, when the danger 
was past, Diaz began to thrash the high- 
spirited animal unmercifully. So far as 
Lockhart could judge, the Mexican was blind 


with rage and fury, for he suddenly stood up 
in the cart and, reversing the whip, began 
beating the terrified animal over the head with 
the loaded end of it. It was as if some lunatic 
had suddenly flared out into one of his cyclones 
of passion. On and on the helpless horse 
dashed until, absolutely exhausted, he sank 
between the shafts and lay in the road. As 
Lockhart quickened his pace, he saw Diaz 
jump from the cart and approach the prostrate 
animal with something in his hand. I Jut it 
was something that shone and gleamed in the 
sunlight, and then the full horror of the situa- 
tion burst on Lockhart. He quickened his 
pace and threw himself off his motor-cycle by 
the side of the cart. He was just in time to 
see Diaz, with a face distorted with fury and 
eyes blazing with rage,stooR down in the road 
and deliberately cut the throat of the ex- 
hausted animal from ear to ear. In the cart 
Lucille sat like a frozen statue. She was evi- 
dently petrified and stricken dumb by this 
exhibition of racing fury. As Lockhart put 
out his hands to her she placed her cold fingers 
in his and he lifted her to the ground. Had 
he not placed his arms about her she would 
have fallen-. ■ Then she found her speech, 
" Oh. take me away, take me away !" 


vay !" she 




said, " I— I am frightened. Did you ever 
see anything so horrible ? " 

Diaz rose from his knees and came forward. 
Hut not a word did Lock hurt say as he fairly 
lifted Lucille in his arms and placed her in 
the side-car, which he had not detached 
from his cycle. There had been just the 
chance that he might bring Lucille home 
with him, and he congratulated himself 
now upon his prudence. 

" Don't say anything/* he cried to Diaz. 
14 And don't come a yard nearer me, or HI 
strangle the life out of you h? 

A few minutes later and Lockhart, with 
his precious burden by his side, was racing 
al'>ng the road in the direction of St. Everards, 
HhiinL ^^ little empty alcove in the tea- 

massf 16 ° u f> dncl placed Lucille in a seat, 
[\ } dumb, though now she shook 

ness . Then the blessed tears came 

^tro^ li an( i tor a long time she sobbed 
ut> b tramedly, 

11 i don't know how to thank you " she 
said at length. "Oh, why did I come 
out with that dreadful man ? From the 
very first i have hated and loathed him, 
and I ha vi been warned against him 
more than once. I was told that he 

was dreadfully cruel to his animals. Now, 
if you " 

" Oh , I know j I know/' Lockhart said, 
" It was all rny fault, Lucille. Only I thought 
you didn't want to come with me, and 1 
was jealous. 1 dare say you will say that 
I have no right to he jealous/' 

She smiled at him gloriously through her 

iN And I thought you didn't care/' she 
whispered. " I thought that you were only 
amusing yourself. Are you quite sure even 
now ; or is it only that you are sorry for me ? j * 

Lockhart acted on the impulse of the 
moment. They were all alone in the arbour 
and no one was in sight, And, besides, she 
was looking at him with those tear- wet eyes 
of hers in a way there was no mistaking, and 
her soul was shining in them. He drew her 
to his side and kissed her passionately. 

u There are going to be no more misunder- 
standings/' he said. " Lucille, I never cared 
for anyone till I met you. and there will 
never be anybody else. And we are made 
for one another. You drifted into this the 
same as I did ; you suddenly found yourself 
without voo?n@mji«>rtab](» home and facing 
the wi^PftTWlttl®HGftN Hut that is 



all over now. After Monday I turn my back 
on this life for ever, and I am going to take 
you to Canada with me. We both hate the 

" I've done with it," Lucille said. " At 
any rate, when I have finished here. And 
nothing will induce me to appear with that 
man again. I couldn't do it, Gilbert. I 
shall tell the management exactly what 

The scandal was too great to be concealed ; 
the management was sympathetic ; and 
during the rest of the week the sketch was 
abandoned. But Diaz brooded, and the 
expression in his eyes when he looked at 
Lockhart was bad to see. 

" Look to yourself/' he threatened, the 
first time they met. " That is a great per- 
formance of yours on the wire, but see that 
it does not prove a barbed wire for you. I 
will make that girl my wife yet, in spite of 

" Do your worst," Lockhart said. " I'm 
not afraid of you." 

Nevertheless, Lockhart was far from easy 
in his mind, a fact that he confided to the 
sympathetic Jenks later in the day. 

" It isn't that I'm afraid," he said. " But 
I'm fearful of my own happiness. Now, just 
consider, Billy. I've made a good deal of 
money, I am going to marry the sweetest 
and dearest girl in the world, and it looks as 
if a glorious future lay before us. And for 
the last time on Monday night I am going to 
risk my life. And it is a risk — a dozen times 
I have been within an ace of death. The 
mere thought that it is the last time makes 
me uneasy. There's more than a chance, 
too, that Diaz will do me a mischief. I 
heard just now from one of those Japanese 
jugglers that the fellow was actually in a 
lunatic asylum in Nevada three years ago. 
I tell you I don't like it a bit, Billy." 

Billy Jenks was duly sympathetic. 

" Look here, laddie," he said. " I believe 
you are in danger, and the best thing to do 
is to realize it. I'm all with you, I am. I 
am only a red-nosed comedian, but I have 
had my dreams, and I want to help you if I 
can. You can't go to the police and get 
them to arrest Diaz, because he has never 
really threatened you. You can't get that 
chap locked up till after Monday, anyhow. 
But you can take precautions, and these are 
all the more necessary because I know that 
Diaz will do you a mischief if he can. I 
found out this morning that he has changed 
his bedroom to the back of the house where 
he has his lodgings in Vernon Terrace." 

" I don't quite understand," Lockhart 

" Let me explain. I also, as you know, 
lodge in the same house ; in fact, there are 
a whole lot of us there. The top back bed- 
rooms in Vernon Terrace overlook the Wintel 
Gardens right between the two water* 
towers. Anybody up there would have a 
grand view of your performance on Monday. 
They could see the fireworks, too, and, of 
course, there will be a deuce of a noise going 
on whilst you are on that high wire. Now, 
our performance will be over at nine, so that 
we shall be free for your big show. I don't 
propose to be there at all. I am going to stay 
at home and keep an eye on Diaz. And I 
can get one or two of the other chaps to 

44 You think Diaz made that change 

" Of course he did. And he's got some 
deep-laid scheme, too. If he gets you then, 
nothing matters afterwards, so far as you are 
concerned. And he won't lose any time 
about it either. I was thinking about it 
all last night. And I think I can see a way 
to get the better of that ruffian and lay -him 
by the heels for many a year to come. Now, 
listen to me." 

As Jenks proceeded to unfold his scheme 
the frown on Lockhart' s face gradually gave 
way to a smile. He was looking quite him- 
self by the time the comedian had finished. 

44 That's a good idea," he said. " There's 
plenty of time to carry it out, too. If 
nothing happens nobody will be any the 
wiser, and if, by any chance, Diaz gets to 
know, then you will be able to prevent him 
doing anything dangerous." 

44 I'll see to that," Jenks said, grimly. " I'll 
use violence if necessary. But if you do 
get through Monday night all right, then he'll 
be pretty sure to have another go at you. 
But if we give him a certain amount of rope, 
then we shall be able to prove an attempted 
crime against him and hand him over to the 
police. You neednH worry, old chap. ^~m 
muse see that everything should coji the i\ 
all right." { the ex- 

) the cart 

It was nearly ten o'clock on the n$ was-e^- 
August Bank Holiday, and something !- v ke 
two hundred thousand people had gathered 
there in the grounds to watch the most 
sensational performance before the public 
that England perhaps had ever seen. The 
two big water-towers loomed out high into 
the sky, and between them, as the spectators 

knew 'U , Nf?ERSfk l #WHrWR5ATJ irc on which 



Senor Romano, as they knew him, was to 
perform the marvellous feat which many of 
them had come miles to see. He would 
appear presently through one of the windows 
of the right-hand tower and cross on that 
spider web to the far side, a matter of some 
six hundred feet, and should anything happen 
to him, he would be dashed to pieces on the 
glass dome beneath him. In itself the per- 
formance was not, perhaps, particularly 
clever, but it was the peril and danger and 
the superb exhibition of human nerve and 
courage that the holiday-makers had come 
to see. 

There was no noise now — no word was 
spoken. It was as if all the people there were 
aware how necessary it was that there should 
be no outburst of feeling and no clamour or 
hurricane of applause to disturb the per- 
former on his terrible journey. And so they 
waited moment after moment, tense and 
silent and strung up to a pitch that had 
something of pain in it. Then a rocket 
soared high into the sky and burst like a 
bombshell high overhead into a cascade of 
falling stars. It lit up that white ring of 
faces for a moftient as if they had been so 
many corpses staring up out of a sea of 
blackness. There followed another rocket 
and yet another, and after that a blaze of 
flares picked out the two great water-towers 
as if they had been cameos cut out against a 
background of solid bronze. And then, high 
up overhead, something seemed to drift away 
from the edge of the tower and move slowly 
along the unseen wire. Its outline was blurred 
and dim, but it was a human figure plainly 
enough, a human figure with hands out- 
stretched swaying gently from side to side. 
A sort of murmur rose from the audience, 
dull and subdued like the sigh of the incoming 
tide on a midnight beach. And after that 
there was a silence more tense and painful 
than before. From the street outside the 
walls came the hoot of a motor and the clang 
of an electric tramcar as it swung along. It 
seemed like an unseemly interruption, some- 
thing that was vaguely resented by the packed 
mass of humanity down there below. 

Then silence again, a silence like the dark- 
ness of Egypt, inasmuch as it could be felt. 
Strong men were there, not given to emotion, 
who swallowed down something in the back 
of their throats. A woman tittered hysteri- 
cally and then bit her lip as someone gripped 
her arm with a force that filled her with pain. 
The mere fact that this grip came from a 
stranger mattered nothing. And gradually 
and carefully the figure on the wire slipped 

Vol. 11-15. 

on until it paused half-way between one toweii 
and the other, as if looking down on the pallid 
faces there — and at the same moment hun- 
dreds of fireworks, rockets, and Roman candles 
and squibs began to play all about the human 
spider on his copper web up there so far over 
their heads. Presently came a little whip- 
like crack faintly audible about the rever- 
berating din and unnoticed by the ears of 
everyone there. A fraction of a second later 
the figure on the copper wire swayed back- 
wards and forwards, then before the horrified 
eyes of the overwrought audience pitched 
headlong downwards and crashed through 
the dome of glass into the Winter Gardens 

It was all done in a flash, a minute fragment 
of time so short as to be infinitesimal, aqd 
yet in that pinch from the duration of a 
second a people's holiday was turned into a 
tragedy of mourning. It was petrifaction 
for a breath, paralysis for a second, and then 
a letting loose of the simple emotions that 
broke like a flood and carried that vast 
human tide with it. Men groaned and 
shuddered and women cried aloud as they 
covered their eyes. And down there on the 
bandstand amidst the fireworks somebody 
in authority jumped to his feet and began to 
roar authoritative words through a mega- 
phone. For a second or two it was as if 
the man down there was raising his voice 
against the tumult of a nation. Then first one 
and another caught the gist of what he was 
saying and whispered it to his neighbour. 
The tale flew from ear to ear quickly as a 
flash of summer lightning. There was silence 
again, deep and impressive, then the mega- 
phone spoke once more. 

Billy Jenks stood in the darkness of a bed- 
room in Vernon Terrace looking out anxiously 
on to the packed gardens below. Behind 
him in his sitting-room with the door closed 
two men were waiting for him to give the 
signal. They knew exactly what they had 
to do, and they knew, moreover, that when 
the time came not a moment must be lost. 
And so Jenks stood there straining his eyes 
into the darkness, waiting one tense minute 
after another until he saw that diminutive 
figure beginning to slide its way from one 
tower to the other opposite. Jenks was 
holding his breath now, every nerve in his 
body thrilling and every sense in him at 
its highest tension. He saw the first rocket 
soar high into the skv, he watched the play 
of the gathering sheets of flame down below. 
And then from somewhere close by him, 




qinal from 




almost in his own car it seemed, he heard a 
sharp crack like the lash of a whip, and lief ore 
the sound had died away he moistened his 
dry lips and whistled. He had just time to 
see the figure on the wire sway and fall before 
he realized that two men were behind him. 

" It 1 s done/* he said, hoarsely, u Now, 
come on, there's no time to be lost." 

As Jenks said this he opened the bedroom 
door next to his own, He fumbled inside for 

the switch of the electric light, and flooded 
the room with a warm glow. The bedroom 
window was wide open, and leaning by the sash 
with a rifle in his hand was Diaz* It hud 
all been done so quickly that even yet a thin 
vapour of smoke was trickling from the barrel 
of the Winchester rifle. Before Diaz could 
rise to his feet the three men were upon him 
and he was Qliffliif»fjf roKe had been caught 
ab^uW'tR^ twenty 



seconds of firing that fatal shot, and he knew 
plainer than words could tell him that his 
fate was sealed. 

gi You murderous scoundrel ! n Jenks cried. 
" Now, what have you got to say for yourself ? 
I saw everything from my bedroom window, 
and now we have caught you with the weapon 
in your hand* Anything to say ? ? 

" Not a word/' Diaz replied, between his 
teeth. " I planned it well and carefully, but 
fate has been too strong for me. And if you 
want to know if Vm 
sorry — well , V m n ot . 
If it had not f>een 
to -night , it would 
have been another 

M We are wasting 
time here/' Jenks 
said. " Bring the 
scoundrel down- 
stairs, and I'll tele- 
phone for the 

The man with the 
megaphone had his 
audience well in 
hand now, and ever}' 
word that he said 
carried true and 
clear to the farthest 
part of the g rounds. 

u Ladies and 
gentlemen/* he 
yelled* u There is no 
cause for alarm, and 
the t r a g e d y you 
have been witnessing 
is no tragedy at all, 
It is only a little 
idea on the txirt 
of Sefior Romano 

which he has adopted of late to lest the 
safety of his wire. Sometimes the atmo- 
sphere makes a difference, as ii generally does 
to high tension wire, so by means of a slender 
steel cord a dummy figure, the weight of a 
big mantis worked along the main cable merely 
to see that it is absolutely safe. By some 
means or another the dummy must have 
become detached from the steel cable and, 
as it swung downwards, tore itself free from 
the copper wire, We deeply regret that we 
should have caused you all this distress, but 
it has-been an accident, as you see, and Sefior 
Romano is up there now waiting to begin. 
If you look up,, you will sec him lor 

A great hufricane of cheers broke from two 
hundred thousand throats, cheers of relief 
and enthusiasm as Lockhart slid aloni: the 
wire and started his daring performance. He 
had waited up there watching eagerly until 
he had seen the flash of an electric light three 
times repeated from a certain house in 
Vernon Terrace, which told him that the 
danger was past and that now he could satisfy 
the demands of his audience without any 
further fear. He bad finished at length 


in a last blaze of rockets, he was drawing 
nearer and nearer to safety, and then he took 
one deep, shuddering breath as his foot left 
the wire and he stepped through the window 
on to the upper sui^e of the tower, a free man, 
sound in life and limb^ a man who saw the 
long years jql .happiness and prosperity looming 
before hinrl}[ l ^m , BeWnn ,! ithe violet darkness ol 

the WFtf^WrftpjI&AIN 




iy We owe everything to the ingenuity of 
Jenks," Lockhart told Lucille, as the three 
rjl them sat at supper an hour later. L1 I told 
you that I should be quite safe, but Billy 
swore me to secrecy, and so 1 couldn't tell 
you exactly how it would be done. All the 
same , Vm glad you kept away from the 
gardens j for it must have been a painful 

scene; in fact, I hardly 
liked to face it myself. 
Still f that's all over 
and done with now. 
Diaz is out of the way 
and he will never 
threaten our happiness 
agayi + They will prob- 
ably certify him as a 
lunatic, which tlfle man 
undoubtedly is ; and he 
will very likely never 
be free again. But I 
don't want to talk 
about him + 1 want to 
talk about our friend 
Billy here, It was he 
who guessed what Diaz 
was going to do, 
especially when he 
found out that the 
Mexican had changed 
his bedroom ; and it was 
he who hit upon the 
happy idea of that 
dummy. It was any 
odds that Diaz would 
take it for me, and be- 
have exactly as he did/' 
" But suppose he had 
found out?" Lucille 

11 Oh , I'd arranged 

for all that/' Billy 

jenks said, modestly. 

1 If he had tumbled to 

our little scheme we 

were going to enter 

his bedroom by force 

and keep him a prisoner 

till the performance was 

over, We might have 

done that in any case, 

but that wouldn't have 

helped us + We had 

to prove that Diaz had 

murderous intentions 

or we should never have 

been able to have kept 

him out of mischief for 

the future. Otherwise, he would certainly 

have had another try. Neat little dodge. 

wasn't it ? And some day, wdien I have got 

time* I think I shall turn it into a play. It 

ought to make a good one." 

il Make it a comedy/' Lucille smiled* 4 We 
have been too near the edge of trapedv to- 
night " 








{Joint Authors ef" Aircraft in tht Great War? etc.). 

Illustrated by Cyrus Cuneo. 

HERE was a question which, 
prior to this campaign, exer- 
cised probably more than any 
other the minds of those who 
studied naval and military 
aviation. What, if a Zep- 
pelin airship was attacked by 
armed aeroplanes, would be the result of the 
encounter ? How engrossing to experts this 
question was may be gathered if one pictures 
a craft as large as a Dreadnought, only with- 
out the Dreadnought's armour or long-range 
guns, being pitted in conflict against small 
machines — resembling, say, torpedo-boats — 
which, though they can attain speeds far 
greater than are possible on sea or land, are 
armed so inadequately that they need, before 
striking an effective blow, to steal within 
two hundred feet, or even less, of their 
adversary's hull. And it is necessary to 
imagine, also, though this is not easy, the 
conditions which, owing to the element in 
which they navigate, must govern a contest 
between any such craft. On land or on sea 
— save in the case of the submarine — com- 
batants manoeuvre on one plane ; advancing, 
retiring, or moving from side to side, but 
maintaining always the same level. In 
the air, though, these adversaries, apart 
from such manoeuvring as is possible on the 
earth or in the water, have the additional 
and unique power of either ascending or 
descending, and of doing so at any moment 
and at high speed. 

* This MS. is based on such data as was available up to 
December i 4 th, 1915.-C G.-W., H. H. 

It was this capacity to move up or down, 
as well as from side to side, with its attendant 
complexities — to say nothing of the differing 
speeds and ascensional powers of the machines, 
or of the weakness of their armament — which 
made it almost futile, at any rate before the 
war, to prophesy what would happen in a fair 
and open conflict, when a large airship was 
given battle by hostile aeroplanes. Now, 
after more than a year of war, we have data 
provided by contests, each authenticated 
and instructive, as fought between British 
aeroplanes and German Zeppelins ; the ques- 
tion ceases, therefore, to be problematical, 
and may be discussed in the light not of 
theory but of proved tactics. 


Why should Britain have relied on aeroplanes 
in such duels as we shall analyze, and why 
should Germany have equipped herself, 
spending millions of money, with the large, 
costly, rigid-type airships which have been 
built and developed by Count von Zeppelin ? 
The question has been one of ambition. 
Germany's aim has been offensive ; she has 
needed a weapon which should make light of 
frontiers and pass above seas, and rain 
destruction on positions far distant from 
German bases, which could be reached only 
by a journey through the air. 

Great Britain had not the stimulus of an 
offensive plan. Our aircraft, and particularly 
our naval aircraft, have been considered 
largely — though, .of course, not wholly — 
as instruments o( defence : as craft to patrol 
our coasts. Had we meant to attack other 



nations, we might have been willing to spend 
freely on the building of large dirigibles ; 
but as things were, before the war, no 
sums were forthcoming — at any rate to any 
appreciable extent — for such airships as 
Germany found money to build. That we 
should have constructed dirigibles, machines 
larger even than those of Germany, there is no 
question. Under certain conditions, when 
Zeppelins attack by night, it would be advan- 
tageous to have defensive airships already 
aloft, and prepared without delay to meet 
them. A drawback, though, with the airship 
is that she does not mount, at any rate at 
present, guns sufficiently powerful to strike 
an enemy an effective or decisive blow. 

Germany gave herself, in the Zeppelin, an 
airship which was the most powerful in the 
world. It carried greater loads than the 
aeroplane, had a wider radius of action, and 
was navigable with some certainty, and fair 
safety, during the hours of darkness ; and 
this attribute of night-flying was, in raids over 
hostile territory, one of supreme importance. 
Had not Zeppelins been able to cross above 
the North Sea and attack us under cloak of 
darkness they would have been powerless, 
owing to their vulnerability when visible, 
to deliver such attacks at all. In daylight, 
had they dared approach defended positions, 
they would have been brought down by 
high-angle guns, or destroyed by aeroplane 

By creeping over us on dark nights, and 
limiting themselves to such conditions, the 
Zeppelins are reduced to the expedient of 
dropping bombs more or less haphazard — 
one here, one there, over a darkened city. 
The only hope in such a method of a decisive 
success, not discussing for the moment its 
barbarity, is that it might be done, say, on 
such a scale, and by such a number ol air- 
ships, that the fires caused by incendiary 
bombs were so numerous, and so disastrous, 
that they tended to paralyze the activities of a 
great city ; or that the people of a country, 
demoralized by the frequency of such ail 
raids, and the loss of life and damage caused 
by them, demanded from their Government 
a cessation of the war. 


Aeroplanes can fly at night ; but, unless a 
special organization is provided in regard to 
landing-grounds, night flying entails serious 
risk. The engine of a machine may fail 
while it is in flight, necessitating a descent 
through the darkness that will end probably 
in disaster ; while, even if a craft is fitted 

with more than one motor, there is still a 
danger that its pilot may make an awkward 
landing, owing to the confusion of dark- 

There is also, with the aeroplane at night- 
time, a difficulty for the pilot in steering an 
accurate course. He is faced often, even if he 
follows his compass, by the task of estimating 
what amount of leeway, under the influence 
of a side-wind, his craft may be making as 
it moves ahead. There are, during the day, 
objects on the earth that will assist him in 
calculating this drift ; but at night he has no 
such aid. And he cannot bring his craft to a 
halt in mid-air, as can the pilot of an airship, 
and allow it for the time to float motionless, 
while he makes a careful observation so as to 
determine his position. 

Except during operations abroad, in which 
British aviators have assumed a determined 
offensive, the task of our aeroplane pilots, 
acting as coastal or inland patrols, has been 
to ascend at night-time and seek to attack 
Zeppelins which have stolen in on a raid. 
The game has been one of aerial hide-and-seek, 
played generally on moonless nights, and under 
conditions which have favoured the airships. 
They have been in a tactical advantage. 
Already in the air, and at an appreciable 
altitude, the aim of their pilots has been, 
after dropping bombs, to make off again at 
their best speed. It is more easy, under exist- 
ing conditions, to make an air raid than to 
repel one. We ourselves have proved this 
by the success of those naval airmen who, in 
full daylight and under a concentration of 
fire, have flown low over German air-stations 
and destroyed Zeppelins in their sheds. 

Aeroplane pilots, for whom it is not feasible 
at night-time — unless illuminated landing- 
grounds have been prepared for them — to 
ascend till they have received definite warning 
of an airship's approach, need to fly upward 
to an elevation which equals, or if possible 
exceeds, that of the raiders. But this ascent 
takes time, in spite bi the rapidity with which 
a powerfully-engined aeroplane can, when the 
need is urgent, be driven upward ; and 
meanwhile the Zeppelins are striving not to 
meet their adversaries in conflict, but to 
make good their escape. It is not surprising, 
therefore, that, though our aviators have been 
many times aloft at night, it has not been 
possible for them, more than once or twice, 
to come within striking distance of the air- 
ships. The aeroplane has, on a dark and 
moonless night, and unless it is already in 
the air at a hi^h altitude, a task almost 
hopeless 1 Nmf Peeking to combat a Zeppelin. 



But expert organization, with the protection 
of a city from Zeppelin attack exclusively in 
view, may do much to render effective an 
aeroplane defensive, even if the airships 
attack by night, and only under conditions 
which favour them. A system of landing- 
grounds may, for instance, be established 
round the outskirts of a city ; and these, at 
night-time, can be outlined by lights in such 
a way that a pilot, even when at a high alti- 
tude, may not only observe their positions 
readily, but may be shown exactly where,, 
on the surface of a landing-ground, he is to 
bring his craft to earth. The alighting points 
can be so distributed also that, when an 
aeroplane is on patrol at night, and its motor 
fails suddenly, the pilot may reach with 
certainty, during his downward glide, one or 
other of the grounds he sees illuminated below, 
and make a landing without accident. Patrol 
aeroplanes, granted the provision of such 
illuminated landing-points, may be sent up 
at night ten thousand feet or more high, 
awaiting the approach of a Zeppelin. The 
raiding airship, flying in towards the city at 
a height of seven or eight thousand feet, is 
detected, we will argue, by searchlight and 
rendered very clearly visible to the pilots 
of the aeroplanes, who are flying, we must 
remember, two or three thousand feet higher 
than the airship. Whereupon the aeroplanes, 
invisible themselves in the upper darkness 
to those on the Zeppelin, and with the sound 
of their engines drowned by the noise of the 
airship's own machinery, can steal over the 
Zeppelin until they are close above her, and 
drop incendiary bombs on her hull from a 
point-blank range. 

A foggy night would, naturally, tend to 
render inoperative such a system of aeroplane 
defence, But fog must prove disadvan- 
tageous also for the raiders. Experience 
shows that Zeppelins attack, as a rule, when 
the nights are moonless and dark and 
without wind ; and these conditions, assum- 
ing the existence of illuminated landing- 
points, are suitable for an aeroplane defensive. 

Means of protection exist, even should 
Zeppelins attack when ground fogs preclude 
aeroplane ascents. Captive balloons, for 
instance, charged with extremely high explo- 
sives fired electrically from the ground, may 
be stationed, at heights from seven to ten 
thousand feet in a circle round a city. The 
charge of explosives would be fired when a 
Zeppelin approached one of the balloons, 
and the concussion of the explosion — granted 
the charge was sufficiently powerful — might 
shatter the framework of a Zeppelin even at 

a distance, say, of a quarter of a mile. There 
would be no crews, of course, in these balloons, 
but in addition to the explosives they might 
be fitted with powerful lights. 


Zeppelin pilots, in many of their raids on 
England, have timed their flights so that they 
have reached some part of our coast-line just 
after nightfall. This has given them, after 
dropping their bombs, a number of hours of 
darkness in which to steal seaward again in 
their avoidance of our patrols ; and it has 
afforded them a better chance, also, when 
their starting point has been one of the 
sheds in Belgium, to regain this harbour 
without being intercepted by aircraft, say, 
from Dunkirk, where the Allies have an 
important base. 

But the Zeppelin is more of a fine-weather 
craft than the aeroplane. Whereas the 
latter will combat a gale, a Zeppelin finds 
herself in trouble, and is awkward to handle, 
should the wind rise higher, say, than about 
thirty-five miles an hour. So Zeppelin 
pilots, in the time-schedules of their flights 
to England, have had to reckon seriously 
with the question of adverse winds ; and their 
difficulties have been rendered greater by the 
fact that, since war began, they have been 
unable to obtain weather reports from the 
other side of the North Sea. 

More than once, from one cause or another — 
and sometimes owing to the human weakness 
of a pilot, who has lingered when he should 
have fled— the time schedules of the Zeppelins 
have been interfered with seriously ; and 
then to the joy of hostile airmen, weary of 
searching for enemies they have been unable 
to find, one of these big machines has 
been surprised, like an owl in daylight, and 
at a moment when her pilot, if plans had 
not gone wrong or been ignored, should 
have been flying in safety far from danger 

We have an instance in the interesting 
engagement, or series of engagements, which 
began off our south-east coast very early on 
the morning of May 17th, 1915. A raiding 
Zeppelin had penetrated as far as Ramsgate, 
dropping bombs here and there. But the bold- 
ness of her pilot, still off our coast at an hour 
when caution must have suggested a retreat, 
seemed likely to cost him dear. A warning as 
to the airship's passage above our shores — 
punctuated as this was by the dropping of 
bombs— had been received at such air 
stations as hud been established nearby. 
TherehW^'^-ha^al ba^JdbH'irnstance, at West- 



gate, from which aircraft were soon in flight ; 
while other machines, seeking to cut off the 
Zeppelin's retreat, rose from the flying-ground 
on the Isle of Sheppey. 

The airship pilot adopted the only tactics 
which were feasible : he turned to escape, 
rising as he did so. The superior speed of 
aeroplanes, when compared with a Zeppelin, 
and their quickness in manoeuvring, ensure for 
them — if they can only locate the airship and 
come up with her — a very distinct advantage. 
Outpacing the Zeppelin, and infinitely more 
rapid in response to their controls, they assume 
inevitably an offensive ; while the airship is 
forced just as automatically to a defensive, 
and endeavours to repel the aeroplanes with 
machine-guns, should they close in on her ; 
or — and this better still — she will try to an- 
ticipate their attack, and render it inoperative, 
by utilizing her ascensional power, which is 
greater than that of the aeroplanes, and climb 
as she retreats till she can shake off these 
antagonists. Were it not for a Zeppelin's 
ascensional power, when in peril and discharg- 
ing ballast, she would be almost at the mercy of 
fast-flying aeroplanes, should such craft 
discover her by daylight, and in a clear sky. 
A Zeppelin can, in an extremity, ascend very 
considerably faster than any aeroplane which 
bears the weight of pilot, passenger, ( and 
machine-gun ; and also to a certain extent faster 
— though here, in view of constructional 
progress, it is unwise to be specific — than any 
single-seated aeroplane. The aeroplane rises 
by forcing air beneath its planes — by a definite 
expenditure of so much horse-power ; and its 
labour is rendered harder from the fact that, as 
it climbs, the air that supports it becomes less 
dense, and provides a diminishing " lift." 
But the airship, with gas in her hull which 
bears her constantly in flight, has only to 
discard ballast, and so lighten the load her 
hydrogen chambers carry, in order to make a 
rapid ascent ; and this climb she can assist, 
materially, by going full speed ahead with her 
motors, and inclining her bow upward, so 
that a current of air is forced beneath her hull. 

A Zeppelin pilot must, if he hopes to make use 
of his power of ascent, perceive attacking 
aeroplanes as they approach him. If he 
cannot do this, if the airmen secure a com- 
plete surprise, they may ascend to a high 
altitude before they close in on their foe, and 
so rob him of his chief safeguard. But in the 
combat we are describing those in the Zep- 
pelin, flying near a hostile coast, were naturally 

on the alert ; and what this affair developed 
Vol. i. — 16 

into, actually, was a running engagement, in 
which the aeroplanes sought persistently to 
draw in on the airship, and she as persis- 
tently eluded them. And this stern chase, 
as it drew away from our coast, tended not 
only to move seaward, but to ascend to higher 
altitudes. An aeroplane, when set climbing, 
as were the craft on the heels of the Zeppelin, 
may be likened to a motor-car on an arduous 
hill. The speed of the aeroplane, so long as 
it must ascend, is reduced perceptibly ; and 
this drawback, in a pursuit which is also a 
race for altitude, tells in favour of the Zep- 
pelin. • A latest-type Zeppelin, with ntotors 
of nearly a thousand horse- power, can be 
driven through the air at a speed — despite the 
five hundred odd feet of her hull — which 
equals that of an express train ; though, of 
course, her sixty miles an hour, even at its 
best, compares unfavourably with the hundred 
miles an hour, or more, of the high-speed 
aeroplane. But this last-mentioned craft is a 
light single-seater, which carries no more 
than a pilot and bombs ; and its only effective 
means of attack, when engaging a Zeppelin, 
is to overtake the airship, rise to a higher 
altitude, and pass across above her hull, 
dropping on her, as it does so, a number of 
bombs. Such a manoeuvre, with a stern 
chase in progress, and those in the airship 
determined to frustrate if possible the airman's 
plan, is by no means easy. 

Heavier, slower-flyiilg aeroplanes, those 
carrying more than one occupant as well as 
a machine-gun, have their pace so reduced, as 
they toil upward after the airship, that they 
cannot hope, even in favourable circumstances, 
to do more than draw in on her slowly; 
while there is risk for the pursuers that the 
airship may, while she retreats, seek the shelter 
of a bank of cloud. Then, hidden for the time 
from those in the aeroplanes, she may steer 
an erratic course, emerging from the cloud- 
bank at such a point and in such a position 
that she is unobserved. 

The aeroplane pilots in this engagement, 
though they hung obstinately on the track of 
the Zeppelin, found they were unable to bring 
matters to an issue. The Zeppelin, moving 
fast and handled well, retired too rapidly for 
them to come up with her. So, after flying 
out as far as the West Hinder lightship, they 
were compelled to return landward, leaving 
their antagonist still in full retreat. 


But the Zeppelin pilot's anxieties were not 
at an end. Thnugh he had thrown off one set 
of pursuers, and without injury to his craft. 




he now found he had to reckon with another 
—and this a squadron of eight of our naval 
aeroplanes, which had ri*cn from the Dunkirk 
station on the other side of the Channel f and 
were seeking to cut off the Zeppelin as she 

made for the Belgian toast. In this they 
sli receded , i 'timing up with the airship off 
Nieuport, She, being caught in daylight some 
distance, from her shed, attempted to repeat 
the tarW£^ilMth r< ?fl& succeeded just before. 





But now conditions were less in her favour. 
The aeroplanes, all at an appreciable height, 
were not at the disadvantage, as had been 
those off the English coast, of having to seek 
an enemy who was already in the air above 

them. The pilots of three machines, dosing 
in on the Zeppelin fast, were able, despite 
the speed at which the airship rose, to fly ,so 
near her that they were within machine-gun 
range, WhQlhS^aiSj ff&fifl the aeroplanes as 




they passed and repassed the Zeppelin, and 
also from the cars beneath the airship's hull, 
there was a brisk and rapid fire. 

But the aeroplanes, using light machine- 
guns, had small chance — even should a 
number of bullets reach their mark — of 
inflicting any serious damage on the Zeppelin. 
Her hull, though vulnerable to the penetra- 
tion of every bullet, might be punctured 
again and again without these injuries 
affecting her flight. The holes made by 
bullets are so small, and the area of the hull 
so large, that the leakages caused by such 
gunfire, 'even in their total, amount to a 
volume that is insignificant. 

The cars of the airship presented themselves 
as targets ; but here, again, with machine- 
gun bullets, and having no weapon of heavier 
calibre, the airmen were not likely to achieve 
much with their fire. The power-plant of 
the Zeppelin, the engines that drove her, 
would be a vital target, naturally ; but 
around these — very light and thin, yet 
sufficiently tough to resist a machine-gun 
bullet — lay a protective armouring. Members 
of the airship's crew might be struck and 
wounded by a well-directed fire ; but this 
would produce no immediate or definite 
result. And it must not be thought the 
aeroplane pilots were having things all their 
own way. Against such attacks, made with 
nothing more powerful than machine-guns, 
a Zeppelin is in a position to defend herself. 
She mounts as many as four machine-guns 
in her cars ; and these, handled from a 
steady platform, turn on hostile aeroplanes 
a dangerous fire. The pilots of the latter 
can, by skill in manoeuvring, minimize this 
risk ; but such a fire, if it does not hit the 
aeroplanes, prevents them drawing so close 
that they can direct their own guns from a 
point-blank range. And aeroplane pilots 
need to remember, when flying within the 
zone of fire, that the craft they control are 
very vulnerable. Neither the motors of 
aeroplanes, nor the fuel-tanks, are, as a rule, 
armoured ; and for the reason that such 
armouring spells weight, and prejudices the 
lifting-power and speed of the machines. 
Pilot and passenger have been protected, it 
is true, and this through the lessons of war, 
by a sheet of toughened steel beneath their 
seats ; but this armouring does not afford 
protection from a more or less horizontal fire, 
such as might be directed from the cars of 
an airship. One shot, striking, say, the 
pilot and killing or wounding him, or hitting 
a vital part of his motor, may put an aero- 
plane out of action ; whereas the aeroplane 

pilot himself cannot hope, by any such 
single shot — unless he is given a weapon 
more powerful than a machine-gun — to 
inflict a vital injury on a Zeppelin. 


The gunfire on both sides, in this encounter, 
proved inconclusive ; and the Zeppelin 
might have escaped without injury from this 
ordeal, as from that off the English coast, 
had it not been for the manoeuvre of Flight- 
Commander Bigsworth, one of the attack- 
ing aviators, who managed to climb higher 
than the airship, and gain a position from 
which he could use bombs against her 

Here lies a weakness of the airship that 
may prove fatal. Though she can resist 
assaults made by an enemy on her own 
level, she lies practically helpless, or has 
done so to the moment of writing these 
lines, if one of the attacking airmen can 
only outfly her, even for a time, in the race 
for altitude. The hull of a Zeppelin, built 
of fabric over an aluminium framing, offers 
no resistance that is appreciable to the 
penetration of a bomb ; and if a hostile 
airman does succeed in flying higher than a 
Zeppelin, and drops bombs on her hull, the 
pilot of the airship has more to fear than the 
puncturing of one of his gas-compartments, 
with a subsequent loss of altitude, and 
perhaps a sluggishness of his machine in 
response to its controls. What he has to 
dread is nothing less than the destruction of 
his craft, with the loss, in addition — and 
this more than probable — of its entire crew. 
The completeness of the aeroplane's success 
is due to the fact that the airship, charged 
with an inflammable gas, carries her own 
ruin within the compass of her hull. The 
aeroplane has incendiary bombs ; and one 
of these, piercing the Zeppelin, may cause a 
fire which involves the airship in sheets of 

The Zeppelin has no means that are 
effective of combating this peril. An aero- 
plane, once directly over the airship, dis- 
appears from the sight of those in her cars. 
The hull of their own craft, bulking above 
them, blots out their upward view. It did 
not need war to bring this danger to the 
minds of the Germans ; they were con- 
sidering it in 1913. A Zeppelin was fitted, 
experimentally, with a platform on the top 
of her hull, which could be reached bv means 
of a ladder passing through the centre of 
the airship, and upon v/hich it was intended 

that 0ffivferf r *ffitM# 1 ** stationed 






with a machine-gun. Mystery surrounded, 
and still surrounds, the trials of the Zeppelin 
so equipped. Unofficially it was stated that, 
when the top-platform gun was fired, the 
flashes from its muzzle ignited, with dis- 
astrous results, the slight escapes of gas 
which, after issuing from the interior com- 
partments, leaked upward through the fabric 
of the hull. The airship, it is undeniable, 
caught fire and fell to destruction. But 
the official explanation was that the fire was 
brought about by an ignition of petrol fumes 
from one of the motors. 

Had these trials proved successful it is 
fairly obvious, in view of the extreme vul- 
nerability of Zeppelins to attack from above, 
that a system would have been adopted 
generally of arming airships on the tops of 
their hulls. But during this campaign we 
have heard nothing — at any rate to the time 
of writing — which would suggest that Zep- 
pelins, even if top-platforms have been fitted 
to the hulls of some of them, have used 
machine-guns from these platforms against 
an. adversary above. When Flight-Com- 
mander Bigsworth found himself in a tactical 
advantage, and at an elevation greater than 
the Zeppelin, it was the obvious task of those 
in the airship to keep him, by any means 
possible, at such a distance that his incendiary 
bombs would fall wide of their mark. Here 
was an opportunity, then, if ever there was, 
for a top-platform gun ; but there is no 
record, authoritative or otherwise, of such 
a weapon having been used. The airman, 
indeed, passed so near the Zeppelin that he 
was two hundred feet — no more — above 

His bombs, released with precision, struck 
the Zeppelin. Whereupon, issuing from the 
neighbourhood of one of the hits, towards the 
stern of her hull, a column of smoke be- 
came visible. But incendiary bombs, as used 
by aeroplanes against airships, are still ex- 
perimental. This bomb, for instance, was 
not fully effective. Though it registered a 
palpable hit, the result was only local. Be- 
yond smoke, as seen at the impact, there was 
no spread of flame along the airship's hull. The 
bomb failed in its prime purpose, which was to 
ignite her hydrogen ; and the injury did not 
check the Zeppelin in her ascent. She con- 
tinued to climb, giving her opponents no 
chance to repeat Commander Bigsworth's 
coup. The height she attained, as estimated the aviators who were attacking her, was 
eleven thousand feet, and this proved the 
damage to her hull could not have been 

The aeroplanes, unable to attain the climb- 
ing speed of the Zeppelin, were out-distanced 
and left behind, and the airship, free for the 
second time from pursuers, continued her 
flight towards her shed. Whether she reached 
it, or whether her pilot paid the penalty of his 
heavy discharge of ballast — not forgetting 
the influence of the injury to the hull — 
and failed to check the descent which must 
have followed on the rush upward, remains 
a point undecided. It was rumoured the 
Zeppelin fell and was wrecked; while other 
statements, German in origin, made it 
appear that she did, after all, creep to her 

Theoretically, in this combat, the Zeppelin 
was destroyed. In peace manoeuvres, had 
such a duel taken place, the umpires would 
have ruled the airship out of action. The 
aeroplane had won the position of advantage, 
and had hit the airship with its bombs. But 
though the pilot, as we have shown, performed 
his task gallantly, the bombs he carried failed, 
and so the Zeppelin escaped. 


These combats should give an impression of 
the complexities of a fight between airships 
and aeroplanes ; and if the duels lacked a 
dramatic ending, if the antagonists met, 
fought, and failed to defeat each other, this 
was not their fault, but the result of a poverty 
in armament — of an inability, when they came 
together, to strike a deadly blow. But it is 
not always, even in this war, that such en- 
gagements are inconclusive. We have an 
instance — one which should become classic — 
of the aeroplane offensive pushed rapidly to 

On the night of June 7th, 1915, rising from 
French territory and passing towards Brussels, 
flew three pilots of our Naval Air Service. 
Two were on an errand of destruction that 
does not concern us. The third was Flight 
Sub- Lieutenant R. A. J. Warneford, a young 
officer of no great experience, but who had 
shown audacity that was conspicuous. His 
task was to make a reconnaissance, and he 
was flying between Ghent and Brussels, the 
time being three a.m., when he observed sud- 
denly, in the faint light of an early morning 
sky, the hull of a Zeppelin. The airship was 
returning towards her shed from a night 

There is a factor which favours the aero- 
plane at such a moment, and it is speed. 
Lieutenant Warneford was piloting a single- 
seated monoplane, which would fly fast and 

asc ^V^Wo™cflteAf anoeuvring was 








performed without any loss of time. He 
gained altitude so quickly, and bore in on the 
Zeppelin so suddenly, that he was flying over 
her, and ready to strike his blow, before she 
could make any move that was effective to 
save herself. And this time the airman's 
bombs, when they reached her, ignited her 
gas. There was a flash and an explosion, 
followed by an air disturbance so great that 
the monoplane, flying above the doomed 
craft, was caught by the blast and overturned. 
Lieutenant Warneford restored its equili- 
brium, however — as is possible, granted an 
aviator is flying high — and returned in safety 
to his starting point ; and it was a tragedy, 
after such an achievement, that he should 
have been killed, accidentally, while testing a 
biplane in a practice flight. 

The Zeppelin, receiving her death blow, 
went to earth a broken wreck, and all those 
in her cars were, according to news received 
unofficially, killed as a result of her fall. 


These encounters taught Germany that she 
must build Zeppelins which are faster, which 
will maintain higher average altitudes, and 
which are, if possible, armed more efficiently ; 
while for the designers of aeroplanes, apart 
from obtaining weapons of greater power, 
there lies the need to provide craft, specially 
adapted for airship attack, which shall climb 
more rapidly. 

Improved Zeppelins have been built, and 
are still being built. Their speed has been 
increased, though with difficulty, and their 
power of high-flying also. As to aeroplanes — 
and the fact is significant — pilots can now be 
given machines when they attack an airship 

which, though details of their achievements 
must naturally be withheld, tan rise at such 
a pace and are manoeuvred with such facility 
that they should, in struggles for altitude 
which may precede a combat, tend to rob the 
Zeppelin of her advantage. 

We need to remember, to the credit of the 
aeroplanes, that it is they — and the anti- 
aircraft guns — which have driven Zeppelins 
from the air in regions where they should 
legitimately be operating ; that is to say, 
over the theatres of war. Instead of engaging 
their Zeppelins in tasks of military signifi- 
cance, such as the bon.bardment of railways, 
ammunition depots, and lines of communica- 
tion, the Germans have been forced to 
employ them in night raids on cities far 
distant from the fighting-line. More effec- 
tive, surely, is the work of a flight of aero- 
planes which, ascending from one of the 
bases of the Allies, wrecks a stretch of railwav 
with its bombs just prior to a movement of 
German troops, and prevents thousands of 
men — during, say, a critical action — from 
reaching their place at the front. 

A word in conclusion. Wherever a Zeppe- 
lin, either at home or abroad, dares attack 
under conditions of daylight which would 
enable her to aim bombs with precision, she 
has defensive aeroplanes most seriously to 
reckon with ; and, even if she raids a city by 
night — and the defences of that city prove 
efficient — she may still have much to fear 
from patrol aeroplanes. They, through the 
facilities for night flying we have described, 
may be already aloft and in a position of 
advantage, waiting only for the co-operation 
of the searchlights to make a counter-attack 
which should be swift and unseen. 



The illustration shows the ground 
plan of a Turkish dungeon, consisting 
of sixty-three cells, all communicat- 
ing by open doorways. An Armenian 
maiden was imprisoned, chained 
down, in the cell where she is shown. 
Her lover, at great risk to his life, 
succeeded in reaching the entrance, 
where he is seen, and rescued her. 
In making his search it seems that 
he entered all the other cells once, 
and only once, before he went into 
the one in which she was found. 
Take your pencil and try to discover 

ff ' 1 1 
1*H-4 + 4 

T - 1 1 — 


-4- + + 4- + 4-I-- 
-4- + I+ + 44- 


- + + ++ + +,4- 

- 4 4 4 + + 4*4 

j — 1 1 t , 1 



a ]X)ssible route. If you succeed, 
then try to find a route in twenty- 
two straight courses. 


Makp, a rough ]>entagon on a 
large sheet of pa[K*r. Then throw 
down the ten non-court cards of a 
suit at the places indicated in the 
illustration on the opposite page, so 
that the pi|>s on everv row of three 
cards on the sides of the jxmtagon 
shall ?dd up alike. The example 
will be found faulty. After you 
KojMn4hh<" rule you will be 



able to deal the cards into their places without any 
1 thought. And there are very few ways of placing 

them. The reader will be pleased with the simple 
but pretty solution. 


Here is what is believed to be the first Double 
Acrostic puzzle in verse ever published. It was by 
"Cuthbert Bede " (Rev. J. Bradley), and appeared 
in the Illustrated London News for August 30th, 1856. 

The Words. 
A mighty centre of woe and wealth ; 
A world in little, a kingdom small. 
A tainted scenter, a foe to health ; 
A quiet way for a wooden wall. 
Find out these words as soon as you can, sir, 
And then you'll have found the acrostic's answer. 

The Letters. 
Untax'd I brighten the poor man's home — 
My wings wave over the beauty's brow — 
I steal by St. Petersburgh's gilded dome — 

While, Bomba's subjects below me bow. 
A cook had reason to dread my name, 
Though I carry the tidings of pride and shame. 
I give the spelling and punctuation as in the original. 
It is, of course, a six-letter acrostic. By the " words " 
is meant the two uprights (initials and finals), and by 
the "letters," the "cross lights." 

287.— A CHARADE. 
Lord Ronald burned the famed Yule log, 

With wassail in his hall. 
My first was wreathed in many a fold 

Where Christmas moonbeams fall. 

He poured my second in a glass 

And pledged the merry glow. 
While in the garden lay my whole 

Crushed dead beneath the snow. 

Solutions to Last Month's Problems. 

Place 5 at the top point, as indicated in diagram. 
Then let the four numbers in the horizontal line 
(7, n, 9, 3) be such that the two outside numbers 
shall sum to 10 and the inner numbers to 20, and 
that the difference between the two outer numbers 
shall be twice the difference between the two inner 
numbers. Then their complementaries to 15 are 
placed in the relative positions shown by the dotted 

Vol IL-17. 

lines. The remaining four numbers (13, 2, 14, 1) are 
easily adjusted. From this fundamental arrangement 
we can get three others. (1) Change the 13 with the 
1 and the 14 with the 2. (2 and 3) Substitute for 

every number in the two arrangements already found 
its difference from 15. Thus, 10 for 5, 8 for 7, 4 for 
11, and so- on. Now, the reader should be able to 
construct a second group of four solutions for himself, 
by following the rules. 

Pales— Leaps— Lapse — Pleas— Peals. 



a p I e 






as h i n g t 



i n c i n n a t 



m s t e r d a 



t a m bo u 



r n e 



e p a n t 


c 1 i p t i 


The following are the moves of White. Black's 
moves need not be given, but we must note whether 
he goes to R 4 or R 5 on his nth move. 1. Kt to 
B 2, ch. ; 2. Kt to R 3 ; 3. Kt to Kt sq. ; 4. Kt to 
B 5 ; 5. Kt to K 4 ; 6. B to Q sq. ; 7. B to K 2 ; 
8. B to Kt 4 ; 9. B to K 6 ; 10. Kt to B 5 ; n. Kt 
to Q 3. If the Black king now goes to R 5, continue : 
12. B to Kt 4 ; 13. Kt to R 3 ; 14. Kt to Q B 2 ; 
15. B to K 2; 16. Kt to KB 2; 17. Kt to K 4; 
18. B to sq.; 19. Kt to K 3; 20. B to Kt 3; 
21. Kt to Q sq. ; 22. Kt to Kt 2 ; 23. Kt to R 4 ; 
24. Kt to K Kt 5 ; 25. Kt to K B 3 ; 26. Kt to Q 4 ; 
27. Kt mates. If Black on his nth move goes to 
R 4, then continue : 12. Kt to R 3 ; 13. Kt to Q B 2 ; 
14. B to Kt 4 ; 15. Kt to K B 2 ; and the rest pre- 
cisely as before, making the 17th move now the 16th. 
By going to R 5 on that nth move, Black himself 
loses the move, which he cannot recover, so the 
bishop makes eight moves — an even number. If 
Black goes to R 4 White loses the move by making 
only, seven moves — an odd number — with his bishop. 
The subtlety lies in sending the bishop round to hold 
the bishops pawn while the knights are got into the 
necessary positions for the play that brings about 
the change of move. 

It is necessary that the two Vs should change 
places. In the following solution in eighteen moves 
the first and second I are distinguished by the numbers 
(1) and (2) : I (1), V, A, I (2), R, O, T, I (i), 
I (2), A, V, I (2), I (i), C, I (2), V, A, I (1). 







Illustrated by IVill Owen. 


his ledger with a slam and, 
slipping from his stool, locked 
the drawer of his desk and 
returned the keys to his 
pocket. It was just one 
o'clock, and there was an 
ebb and flow of clerks returning from and 
going to lunch. It had been an everyday 
scene to Mr. Pope for thirty years ; he looked 
forward to another ten and then a pension, 
which he fondly hoped to enjoy for thirty 
more. He walked slowly across the big room 
and, putting his head around a glass and 
mahogany screen, eyed with clerkly dis- 
approval the industry of a man working 
" One o'clock, Carstairs," he said, sharply. 
Mr. Carstairs turned a lean, clean-shaven 
face on his friend and smiled amiably. 

" Just coming/' he said, blotting his work. 
" I had no idea it was so late." 

Mr. Pope grunted. " I should know it in 
the dark," he declared, " without a watch. 
I believe you like work, Carstairs." 

The other shook his head. " Just a habit," 
he said, slowly. " There's not much to like 
about it. Come along, before you faint." 

He led the way out of the bank into the 
crowded, sunlit street, and, seizing an oppor- 
tunity, darted across the road. Mr. Pope, 
with a finer sense of his dignity, waited until 
the traffic was held up, and crossed ponder- 

u One of these days " he began. 

" I know," said his friend, " but I feel like 

Copyright, 1916, 

a boy to-day. Twenty-five years dropped 
from my shoulders this morning and left me a 
boy of twenty." 

44 Pity the grey hairs didn't drop too," 
remarked Mr. Pope. 

" One thing at a time," said the other. 
" And, after all, I haven't got many." 

He stopped at the entrance to the Beech 
Tree and pushing through the swing-doors 
led the way up to the dining-room, and to the 
end table they usually occupied. Mr. Pope 
seated himself with a sigh of content and, 
placing a pair of gold-rimmed pince-nez across 
his nose, studied the menu. 

" Plate of mulligatawny," he said, slowly, 
" boiled silverside, tankard of bitter." 

He ate his meal with enjoyment and then, 
lighting a cigar and ordering coffee, disposed 
himself for conversation. Carstairs, who had 
eaten but little, answered in such an abstracted 
fashion that Mr. Pope, in a fit of pique, 
closed his mouth with his cigar and lapsed 
into silence. 

" I'm sorry," said Carstairs, turning, with 
a slight laugh. " I was thinking." 

u Think away," said his friend, coldly. 

" Thinking of the many times I have eaten 
in this place," said Carstairs. " Day after 
day, year after year. It has all passed like 
a dream." 

" Best way for a lunch to pass," said Pope, 
with feeling. " If you had poor Hall's 
digestion " 

u I mean the whole thing," said Carstairs. 
" The morning train, the day's work. For 
twenty-five years, rain cir shine, I have been 
shut tip in tliat office telling care of other 

by W. W. Jacobs. 




people's money. Now I am my own master. 
I can stay in bed all day, or go to the North 
Pole if I like." 

Mr. Pope took his cigar from his mouth 
and regarded him thoughtfully. " You had 
better stay in bed all day/' he said at length. 
" Or perhaps two or three days would be 

" This is my last day at the office/' said 
Carstairs. " I can hardly realize it." 

u Don't try to," said Pope, anxiously. 

" To-morrow morning I shall go birds' 

" In — in October," stammered the unhappy 

" Or a motor run," said Carstairs, hiding 
a smile. " If it's a day like this it will be 
splendid. I'll ask for a day's leave for 
you. I bought a ripping car yesterday." 

Mr. Pope stifled a groan. " We had better 
be getting back," he said, rising. 

" Back ! " said the other. " Why, we have 
got twenty-five minutes yet. Sit down and 
discuss where we shall go. You needn't be 
alarmed. I am not going to drive. What do 
you say to Brighton ? Run down to lunch, 
spend a couple of hours by the sparkling sea, 
and then home to dinner and a theatre." 

Mr. Pope turned and looked long and hard 
at his friend. "Look here, Carstairs," he 
said at last, " do you know what you are 
talking about ? " 

" About a motor run," said the other. 

" In your own car," pursued Pope. 

Carstairs nodded. 

" Where did you get it ? " 

" Bought it." 

Mr. Pope sighed, but pursued his cross- 
examination. " How much ? " 

" Nine hundred and twenty-five pounds," 
was the reply. 

There was a long pause, during which Mr. 
Pope tried hard to get his voice under control. 

" Where did you get the money ? " he 
asked at last, in fairly even tones. 

" Ah, now you're getting to business," said 
Carstairs, smiling broadly. " It was left 
to me by an uncle I haven't seen since I was 
ten. He went to Australia sheep-shearing. 
Judging by the amount I'm rather afraid he 
must have been shearing his fellow-men 
as well." 

Pope, still looking doubtful, cleared his 

" Much ? " he inquired. 

Carstairs nodded. "I'm afraid to tell you 
the amount," he said, quietly. " You might 
ask me to go and see a doctor." 

" How much ? " demanded the other. 

" Or fall off your chair." 
" How much ? " repeated 

the other, 

" We don't know exactly," said Carstairs, 
fumbling in his pocket, " but in this letter 
from my lawyers they say about thirty 
thousand a year." 

Conversation in the room was suspended 
until the echoes of Mr. Pope's exclamation 
had died away. With a trembling hand he 
took the letter and read it, and then for the 
first time in many years he had a glass of 
water with his lunch. After which he 
congratulated Mr. Carstairs. 

" But you've known this some time," he 
said, reproachfully. 

" About three weeks," said Carstairs. " But 
I wanted to be absolutely certain before I said 
anything about it." 

" What are you going to do with it all ? " 
demanded the amazed Pope. 

Carstairs pretended to consider. " I shall 
keep a few fowls, I think," he said at last, 
" and the motor." 

Mr. Pope shook his head gloomily. " It'll 
be thrown away on you," he said. " You 
never have had any idea of real enjoy- 
ment. You'd have been much better off if 
the old man had left you five hundred a year. 
You've got simple tastes." 

" Simple things cost the most, I believe," 
said Carstairs. " My car doesn't make nearly 
such jn important noise as a secondhand one 
at fifty pounds. A ten-guinea suit of clothes 
escapes ok^rvation, whereas one at twenty- 
five shillii^ attracts attention wherever it 

Mr. Pope, who was not listening, raised his 
finger for the waiter. u Two glasses of the 
best and oldest port you've got. I want to 
see what it feels like to stand treat to a man 
with thirty thousand a year," he said, after 
the waiter had departed. " You'll drop all 
your old friends now." 

u Of course/' said Carstairs, simply. " I 
shall begin with you — after I have drunk the 

Mr. Pope clinked glasses, and then with 
a gentle sigh sipped his wine. 

" You'll have to be careful," he said, after 
a long silence. " There are heaps of people 
who will be anxious to help you spend that 
money. You're too easy-going by half to be 
trusted with it. I can see you investing it in 
all sorts of wild-cat schemes, not because 
you believe in them, but because you will be 
unable to say ' No.' " 

" Perhaps you're right," said Carstairs. 

*UB W ERStWO F ftfll CHlGA fo a ^ his friend, 







vehemently. " You've got no knowledge of 
the world, and you have a trust in human 
nature that I can only describe as child-like. 
I shouldn't be surprised if you lost everything 
you've got in five years." 

" I reckoned ten/' said Carstairs, " but 
I dare say you are nearer the mark. However, 
I will relieve your mind by telling you that I 
am taking measures to prevent it. I am 
engaging a man to look after my affairs, and 
if I crack up in a few years he will be 
responsible. I shall practically leave things in 
his hands." 

" Leave things in his hands ? " gasped the 
amazed Pope. " And suppose he lets you 
down ? " 

" He won't," said Carstairs.* 

The other looked at him with unaffected 
concern. " Don't do it," he said, earnestly. 
" Don t do it." 

44 I must," said Carstairs. " I can't be 
bothered with business matters. I might 
as well stay on at the bank. It's no use, 
Pope, I'm quite determined." 

" You must be crazy," said Pope, at last. 
" What do you know about him ? How long 
have you known him?" 

44 Long enough to know he is all right," 
said ^he other. " But you know him better 
than.I do." 

" \ ! " said Pope, starting. " I don't know 
anybody I'd trust to that extent. Who is it ? " 

44 His name is William Pope," said Carstairs. 

Mr. Pope's expression changed suddenly, 
and his mouth broke into tremulous smiles. 
Then his face began to harden again. 

" It's no use," said Carstairs, who had been 
watching him closely. " It's a favour to 
myself. You've got a very clear head for 
business, and a stronger way of dealing with 
people than I have." 

Mr. Pope shook his head. 

" And you know what things are better 
than I do," pursued Carstairs. " You can 
help me to jceep my end up. There's an air 
about you, Pope, that I haven't got. I want 
some of your moral support. I want you to 
tell my lies for me, and intervene between 
myself aad . people who want to help me 
spend my money." 

44 If you put it that way " began the 

other, wavering. 

44 It's the only way to put it/' said Car- 
stairs. " It's a pure matter of business ; 
friendship doesn't count at all. We'll have 
a contract drawn up by my solicitors all 
shipshape and proper, and then I shall be 
able to enjoy my money while you have all 
the trouble of it." 

Pope turned in his chair and extended his 

44 That's settled," said Carstairs, 44 and I'm 
willing to give you the pleasure again of paying 
for a wealthy friend's port to celebrate it." 

Mr. Pope held up to the waiter a beckoning 
finger that seemed to have increased in size 
and importance since the last order. He turned 
an eye on a clock that no longer had any 
message for him, and, raising his glass, toasted 
44 Our very good healths." 

The return to the office was effected without 
hurry. Haste was all very well for men whose 
horizon was bounded by streets and the 
regular performance of mechanical duties ; free 
men with the pleasant places of the world 
before them could afford to take their time. 
In front of the very entrance of the bank 
Mr. Pope, pleasantly conscious of being 
twenty-five minutes late, loitered to purchase 
a buttonhole. His appearance was so dig- 
nified that the colleague who had been im- 
patiently awaiting his return in order to go 
to his own lunch ventured on no greater 
reproach than a sniff. 

The dislocation caused in a large office 
by the retirement of two of its staff is not 
great, and any inconvenience occasioned is 
amply atoned for by the consequent pro- 
motions. The two clerks left with the good 
wishes of their fellows, although there was 
a little uncertainty, due to the bearing of 
Mr. Pope, as to which of them was the for- 
tunate legatee. 

The secretary entered upon his duties at 
once. He had innumerable consultations with 
the lawyers (cheerfully acquiesced in by those 
excellent men of business), and with knowledge 
gleaned from " Every Man His Own Lawyer " 
propounded conundrums that took the united 
intellects of the firm to solve. 

Nor were the lighter branches of his work 
neglected. Gently but firmly he made the 
reluctant Carstairs renounce the firm of City 
tailors who had dressed him for twenty years, 
and all their works, and piloted him to a 
West-end house where the charges were 
three times as great. 

" To be well-dressed is half the battle," he 
said, severely, as he followed Carstairs into 
a restaurant to recuperate after their labours.* 
" What about that little table at the end ? " 

44 That's taken, sir/' said the waiter; 
44 The next one is not engaged." 

Mr. Pope frowned, and, after a moment's 
hesitation, took the proffered chair and began 
to study the menu. He made his selection 



after much questioning, using his forefinger 
in preference to the pitfalls of the French 

He broke his roll and looked around him 
with placid content. The Beech Tree 
Tavern seemed to belong to a remote and 
uncongenial past. His gaze roved from 
pretty women and well-groomed men to the 
small orchestra in the gallery. He turned 
with a smile to see the hots (F&uvres at his 

The occupant of the reserved table appeared 
just as Mr. Pope was toying with a sweet- 
bread : a tall, well-knit young man of about 
twenty-five, who took the chair which 
backed on to Mr. Pope's with so much 
vigour that a piece of sweetbread changed 
its destination at the last moment, and, 
leaving a well-defined trail down that 
gentleman's shirt-front, hid inside his waist- 

44 Sorry," said the young man, moving 
his chair forward an inch.' " They don't 
leave much room here." 

44 Plenty of room for people who know 
how to use it," said Pope, crisply. 

The other smiled amiably and watched with 
some interest the efforts of Mr. Pope to find 
the missing morsel. His interest increased 
as the latter in a furtive fashion began to 
unfasten the buttons of his waistcoat. 

u Surely you're not going to disrobfc here, 
my good man ? " he said, in an unnecessarily 
distinct voice. 

Mr. Pope, crimson with rage and con- 
fusion, turned a deaf ear. For some time 
he went on with his meal in silence, and then, 
conversing in a low voice with Carstairs, 
allowed such words as u Wasters," " Over- 
grown schoolboys," " Boors," etc., to wander 
as far afield as the next table. 

His countenance did not relax until the 
coffee and liqueur stage was reached. He 
lit a large cigar and, in a moment of forget- 
fulness, pushed a little farther from the table 
and leaned back in his chair. Contact was 
made, as the electricians say, and a 
strong current of obstinacy passed from Mr. 
Pope and rooted the feet of the man at the 
next table to the floor. Carstairs, at first 
amused, became apprehensive. 
* 4< Don't make a scene," he whispered. 
" You'll attract attention in a moment." 

" Tm not doing anything," rejoined Pope, 
in a hot whisper. " Let him move back to 
his own territory." 

He thrust his back heavily into his chair, 
determined not to budge an inch. The same 
idea seemed to possess his adversary, then 

better feelings prevailed, and with" a'^quiet 
but sudden movement he hitched his chair 
forward at least a foot. 

Mr. Pope, by a frantic movement of his 
arms, retained his balance, but a loud 
snapping noise indicated disaster. He tunied 
to see the top of his chair and half the back 
dangling to the floor. His waiter came 
hastily to the scene of disaster and the manager 
made a leisurely progress up the room. 

" Another chair, please," said Carstairs, 

A fresh chair was fetched and the manager, 
expressing polite regrets for the shortcomings 
of the old one, withdrew to his lair to find 
fault with the waiter. The cause of the 
mischief, who. had taken a languid interest 
in the proceedings over his right shoulder, 
lit a fresh cigarette and exchanged, glances 
with Carstairs. 

" Worst of these genuine twentieth-century 
Chippendale chairs," he remarked, Casually. 
" They won't stand a strain." 

44 They were not made for twentieth-century 
manners," rejoined Carstairs, equably. * „ ** 

The young man flushed. u Dp you mean 
it was my fault ? " he inquired. . ... 

44 You know it was,", said Carstair?. 

44 Perhaps you're right," ' s^idJthe otter, 
shaking his head. " But ;'^h^Wddea in the 
direction of Pope, and ioweret His voice t£ a 
penetrating whisper— u "he'sf:\gdfr* "such *an 
aggressive back. Besides, I ;did*ft* think fhe 
chair would break •; f merely tboughf.thatfhe 
would come over backwards^"-- .. 

Mr. Pope, with a smothered exclamation, 
turned and regarded him fixedly. 

44 However, all's well that ends well," 
pursued the young man. 44 You will allow 
me to settle for the damage." 

" No," said Carstairs. 

44 I sha n't feel comfortable unless I do," 
urged the other. 

44 I don't see any reason why you Should 
be allowed to feel comfortable/' - &aid Car- 
stairs. u You have done your best to make 
my friend feel uncomfortable." » • "* 

44 He's all right," said the young man, 
nodding comfortably at the glowering Pope. 
44 He's a sportsman." 

He turned his chair a little with the air of 
one disposed for conversation, and, striking 
a match for his cigarette, applied it first to 
the end of Pope's cigar. The owner, paralyzed 
at his impudence, endured the attention in 
silence, while a faint chuckle from Carstairs 
cleared the atmosphere. Mr. Pope had 
finished his second cigar and the restaurant 
w ^UM'tem^ they arose 




from table and, walking down the rounij 
divided the manager s bow between them. 

" Bright youngster, ,T said Carstairs, after 
their newly- made acquaintance had departed. 

Pope assented, but without much enthu- 
siasm. ** You gave him your address/' he 
said, accusingly, 

41 1 like him/' was the reply. 

M And he is one of the sort that is sure to 
turn up/* added Pope. 

His remark was justified by the arrival of 
Mr, Jack Knight at Carstairs* flat three 
nights later. Being in the neighbourhood, 
he said, he thought he would just look in 
and see how Pope was progressing in the 
furniture-moving line. When he left, at 
midnight, both men saw him to the lift. 

Within a fortnight he was on the footing 
of an old and valued friend, and full of advice 

- i 



satisfactory mode of dis- 
posing of a large income. 
The endowment of an 
orphan asylum, coupled 
with visits to Monte Carlo, 
would, he thought, satisfy 
all shades of opinion. 

M Or you might get 
married/ 1 he said, thought- 
fully. " There are plenty 
of women who could get 
through your income, and 
ask for more/' 

" Meantime/ 5 said Car- 
stairs, " while you are 
pricing sites for the asylum, 
and Pope is looking up the 
trains to Monte Carlo, I 
am going to look about 
for a place in the coun- 

lt Of course/' said 
Knight, suddenly* M Good 
heavens ! Why didn't I 
think of it before? It's 
the very thing ; it fits in 
exactly, I've been wonder- 
ing why Fate threw you 
into my lap in such an 
informal manner. Now I 

" He is rambling/' said 

41 We are all going to 
ramble/' retorted Knight. 
" That is, so far as one 
can ramble in a motor-car- 
To-morrow I am going to 
take you in a car— Car- 
stairs' —to see the place. 
A beautiful Elizabethan 
house in Hampshire that 
is just made for you/ 1 

fc£ What's that got to do 
with your lap ? " inquired Carstairs. 

11 Small park, meadow land, and a lake ; a 
little gem of a lake/ 1 pursued the young man. 
"It's a little bit of Paradise that has fallen 
into Hampshire and is waiting for you to 
pick up. JJ 

11 The place Fm going to look at is m 
Surrey/ 5 said Carstairs. " I'm already corre- 
sponding about it." 

u Surrey ? Surrey's no good/" said Knight, 
quickly. u It's overrun. You come to Hamp- 
shire, there's a good chap." 

" Afterwards , perhaps, if the place in 
Surrey is no good/* said Carstairs 

But it might be/' said the other, " and wrong ffljj^t, 



in that case you wouldn't want the Hampshire 

Carstairs acquiesced, 

" There's something behind ft,** growled 
Pope. u Something to do with his precious 
lap. He is quite agitated," 

" You're right, Pope/ 1 said Carstairs, 
regarding the young man closely. " If it 
were anybody else I should say he was 

" It's as near as he will ever get to it," said 

ki I have got nothing to blush about/ 
declared knight, firmlfJO "There's nothing 


'wmttefc there ? 



IS THERE ? ' " 

THERE'S nothing wrong ABOUT 

" Engaged !/* said his listeners together, and, 
" I hope she's worthy of you," added Pope. 

" I fail to see the connection between jour 
engagement and my choice of a house; 1 said 

" Lack of imagination/' said Knight, 
briefly. " She lives down there. If you take 
that delightful Elizabethan mansion I <;an 
come and stay with you. As it is, whenever 
I want to see her I have to hang about 
fishing in the beastly little river there. Last 
four times I caught three puny fish and saw 
her once— with her guardian/' 

Carstairs looked at him helplessly for a few 
seconds, and then turned his gaze on Pope. 

" No sense of pn> 
portion/' he said, at 
last, " or else morally 

" Both," said Pope, in 
a deep voice. 

41 The house is prob- 
ably a draughty ruin/ 3 
pursued Carstairs, " the 
so-called lake a duck- 
pond covered with preen 
slime. He ought to have 
been a house agent," 

M Well ? I'm going down 
there t o - morrow } any- 
way," said Knight, "If 
you won't drive me 
down, I suppose I must 
go by train— third class." 
(t Why do you have 
to go fishing ? " inquired 

Mr. Knight sighed. 
14 The engagement is not 
official," he said, after a 
pause. " Lady Penrose, 
her guardian, misunder- 
stands me/' 

(i But surely ■* be- 
gan Carstairs, 

** Don't make obvious 
jokes," said Knight, 
wearily. "This is 
serious. I suppose an old 
bachelor doesn't under- 
stand ; but he might try 
and learn," 

"What has the 
guardian got against 
you ? " asked Carstairs, 
** Poverty/' said Mr. 
Knight, gloomily. " I 
am an undesirable. Four 
hundred a year and a 
distinguished appearance are my sole assets/ 5 

"When I was your age " began 


4j Oh, my aunt I " interrupted Mr. Knight, 
in despairing accents. " My dear Carstairs, 
1 have got three uncles, three stolid, un- 
imaginative uncles, and whenever I go to see 
them to try and touch them for a little bit, 
they always begin that way. It's their one 
opening. Try and say something more agree- 
able. Tell me the time the car will be ready," 
" Fm not going to take that house, mind," 
said Carstairs. 

fl Course n#/F^d I Knight, with a delighted 
grin. IjljRtERSff'fWWffl^A^ There * s no 



harm in looking, as the lady said when her 
husband asked her not to go to the bargain 
sale. You're a brick, Carstairs. So's Pope," 
he added, after a moment's reflection. " Will 
half-past ten be too early for you ? " 

14 That'll do," said Carstairs. " Is the 
chauffeur to wear a white favour ? " 

" He can wear a wreath of roses if he 
likes," said Knight. " I don't mind. I'm so 
pleased at being able to be of service to you, 
Carstairs, that I'd put up with anything. By 
the way, do you mind if I bring a friend with 
me ? Chap named Peplow — great friend of 
mine. He's got interests down there, too." 

" Interests ? " repeated Carstairs, in a dazed 

Mr. Knight nodded. " She's a very nice 
girl," he said, generously. " Freddie used to 
come down fishing with me, and the two 
girls are great friends. He had met her 
before in town, too." 

" Do you think I'm running a matrimonial 
agency ? " demanded Carstairs. 

" Not at all," said Knight, raising his eye- 
brows. " I'm merely asking you for a lift, 
that's all. I'll tell Peplow he must go by 

" Bring him, by all means," said Carstairs. 
" But, mind, I wash my hands of it. I am 
merely going to look at a house." 

" Awfully good of you," said the other. 
" And if you remember, that's just what I 
wanted you to go down there for. Well, 
good-bye. If I'm to be up early in the morning 
I must be off." 

He took a cigarette from the box and 
departed, humming the latest air from the 
latest musical comedy. Carstairs, to avoid 
the censorious gaze of Pope, got up and 
helped himself to a whisky and soda* 

The morning was misty, with a glorious sun 
overhead, as, punctual to the minute, the 
car drew up and Mr. Knight descended the 
steps from his front door, accompanied by 
a young man of somewhat chubby appearance, 
whom he introduced as Mr. Peplow. To 
Mr. Pope's whispered inquiry, " Where are 
the others ? " he turned a deaf ear. 

" Awf'lly good of you," said Mr. Peplow, 
climbing into the car as his friend got up in 
front. 4< I'm so fond of fishing." 

" Are your rods down there ? " inquired 
Carstairs, as the car moved off. 

u Jack," said Mr. Peplow, leaning forward, 
" we've forgotten the rods." 

" Never mind," said Mr. Knight. 

" But " said Mr. Peplow. 

Knight twisted round in his seat. " It's 
all right," he said, calmly. " They know 

all about it. Carstairs wormed it out of 

Mr. Peplow sat back in his seat and blushed, 
and, smoothing a small fair moustache, 
glanced sideways at his astonished host. A 
smothered guffaw from Mr. Pope did not add 
to his comfort. 

" Awf lly good of you," he murmured, 

" Just the day for a run," said Knight, 
turning round in his seat again as they left 
the dwindling suburbs and began to scent 
the open country. " You ought to be awfully 
obliged to me, Carstairs." 

" I am," was the reply. 

" What is the programme ? " inquired 
Knight. " There's an awfully decent inn in 
the village, and I suggest we should lunch 
there, and then go on to the house after- 

" That'll do," said Carstairs. " And perhaps 
we shall be able to see the house from the 
inn. That will save trouble." 

" I don't mind trouble," said Knight. 
" Especially if I can pick my own. Do you 
mind if I drive a little way ? " 

He changed seats, and Mr. Pope, with 
a smothered exclamation, held on to the side 
of the car. He leaned across Mr. Peplow to 
shout to Carstairs, but the wind blew the 
words down his throat. He huddled back 
into his seat, and prepared for the worst. 

"Fast?" said Mr. Knight, as he slowed 
down for a village. " You don't call that 
fast, do you ? Wait till I get a bit of straight 

" He never has an accident," said Mr. 
Peplow, proudly, " but he's had the most 
marvellous squeaks. Do you remember that 
brick-cart, Jack ? " 

Mr. Knight turned his head to smile, and 
Mr. Pope's voice rose in protest. 

" We'll keep her down to twenty-five or 
thirty, please," said Carstairs, leaning forward, 
" for the sake of the brick-carts." 

Mr. Knight sighed, and with a couple of 
fingers on the wheel endeavoured, but in vain, 
to carry on a conversation with Mr. Pope. 

u We're nearly there now," he said, pre- 
sently. " Keep your eyes open for the 

They passed slowly through a winding 
village street, whose half-timbered houses had 
drowsed through the centuries. The bell 
of the general shop clanged, and a bent 
back disappeared inside the doorway of the 
Red Lion. The rest of the place slept. 

" Restful ! " said Mr. Knight, almost 
smac^-g^^p^^fe^ou^ show." 



I i 'n 


He drew up in front of a sedate old inn 
a hundred yards beyond the village, and, 
yielding the wheel to the chauffeur, led the 
way inside and, nodding to the landlord^ 
passed upstairs* 


" Now for a fire and a meal/' he said, as 
he ushered them into a comfortable room. 
(i Here's the fire, and the food will be on 
the table at one. Observe how beautifully 
Pope's legs frame the glowing coals." 

,^[ B Original from 


A Philosopher of the Kerbstone, 


Perhaps the strange vicissitudes of fortune are nowhere more strikingly displayed than on 
the kerbstones of the streets of London, Here, for example, is a case in point— no fancy 

picture! but an actual study from the life. 


HERE is a man in London— 
he calls himself a pedlar. He 
has no home save the un- 
certain nightly tenure of a 
bed in a common lodging- 
house in Seven Dials^ no pos- 
sessions save the clot lies on 

his back, no human ties of any kind. Thou- 
sands of people 

whose steps 

take them 

through the 

pulsing web of 

streets which 

has for its 

nerve -centre 

Piccadilly Circus 

h a v e probably 

brushed past 

him without so 

much as noticing 

him ; vet he is 

that rare 

phenomenon, a 

man worth 

knowing, worth 

speaking to. 
To be satisfied 

with one's lot, 

when that lot is 

to sell matches 

in the street in 

order to keep 

body and soul 

together 9 implies 

either the ele- 
mentary mind of 

an animal or 

the highest intel- 
lectual achieve- 
Think of it ! 

Here, in the 

very heart of 

the richest city 

in the world, 

faced by the 


1 i 



am ssssssn 

HUH aJ^m 


HtaSjBJSjSfl^^r^ ^^*^ 



most blatant proofs of luxury, worldly am- 
bition, and human restlessness, this man, wh 1 
is practically a beggar — for, if he does not 
beg, he accepts alms from the passer-by— 
this man with empty purse and empty 
stomach, whose nostrils must be continuously 
tantalized by the appetizing odours from the 
restaurants, where his fellows gorge them- 

selves to re- 
pletion, professes 
to feel no envy, 
no bitterness, 
More, he asserts 
that he is per- 
fectly contented. 
He is a philo- 
sopher in the 
true sense of the, 
word, accepting 
the decrees of 
Fate without a 
murmur and 
deeming that, 
for some reason 
beyond his ken. 
Providence has 
imposed upon 
him a period of 

14 Were it not 
difficult to reach 
the Pole," he 
will tell you, in 
the dull mono- 
tone of the man 
who seldom 
unburdens h i s 
thoughts, " there 
would be no 
honour in 
success," Every 
attempt at 
a ympathy he 
counters with a 
like rejoinder. 
Yet there is 
nothing of the 




sanctimonious prig about him, nor the least 
suspicion of the mumper by profession. 

The prosperous and the M unco guid rJ have 
theories to ex- 
plain why people 
fall to the very 
bottom of the 
social structure 
and remain 
there. Inthepre- 
s e n t instance, 
none of these 
theories are 
Policemen who 
have known 
this particular 
pedlar for years, 
ever since his 
gaunt, bearded 
figure became a 
familiar feature 
of their beat, 
will tell you 

they have never seen him beg, nor do any- 

They have never 


it *f fata /* 

wmrtssEin that 

4ulb put hUMtlf Apf'MSlS* ki 


1*Uar%hit Art ir — y * j- *»i *LiJk Ham (uXUf^ * 

ike naMttraf u Ippmlk*) IaMLuJ *wrc few ft* ' W*& CCf rf * rf?^ 7f-&* 

^« iC- *«^/* 


uul tfc* Ml Eai nl 7*™ J / /« U y, il% ft, 

wll fctb^'ng. I* Ih fall ctaplftod !&•■ coded Duiiji "hfcl Tern rirt Mid Appr»nu« bn iu4 

IfiilrT r*iLhrulJ T ib J] urn-, Jiji f^itli fc**p, ibd fait h"l'ilJ CewwaJl «rrj vfcfi* jckdlp Jo. IU 


anatomy ? physiology ? and chemistry — of 
the King and Queen 1 s College of Physicians 
of Edinburgh. Here he was overtaken by the 

first blow of 
Fate, and this 
w a Sj perhaps, 
the initial cause 
of bis subse- 
quent ill-luck. 

The sudden 
death of his 
father made it 
imperative for 
him to earn' 
money at once. 
He abandoned 
medicine and 
entered an 
engineering fac- 
tory, where his 
industry was 
such that he 
even found time 
to act occasion- 
ally as an unqualified medical assistant to his 
uncle. Though much preferring engineering 

to medicine, doubt- 




thing that merited reproof. 

even seen him enter 

a public-house. less he would eventu- 

Here, briefly, is * i ally have been able 

this nian's record. j) flUS j f J^tm *h*fntak '\ to °b tai ^ a medical 

Mis father was a k . ft * * qualification, had not 

prosperous farmer and f' ** p**J&4 * t"** 1 *. W/ chance intervened. 

miller near Dublin* y * - The chief engineer 

Two' of his brothers : */^?T / 2/tl / V • 1 oi a lar R e steamer * 

were in the medical /^^ p ^— f*J^ l/^^- A^&A the Menimort, at the 

profession. It was V / ■-■ * » ' , '•* v5"— -' ■ *.>/ > ' o moment of sailing 

arranged that young ' ^r*' A**--** *^ ^^ **+4>*y s for New York, dis- 

Neill should enter W*tA f ^*"7 ^"-^ /„ covered that his 

the same profession, * % fourth assistant was 

and on leaving i\~^n &* f^- ; q^\^/4^ > missing. He appealed 

school, in i88o } at _\ * to a shore friend in 

the age of seventeen, * J //A^^*^^^^^ tf^ his extremitVj and 

^he was bound ^^ Nell was suggested 

apprentices p o t h e- ^%4»» y*^*** iyr- // / * as a P 055 ^^ substi- 

cary to Sir Thomas \ <\ t A . . f ^ **> tute, 

M y 1 e s, apothecary \ / f A A / , *' Does he know his 

and surgeon to the ^ //■/?>?: /J V7 ' '- ^ business?" 

House of Industry / U ^— ; ' ' "What he does 

Hospital, Dublin — '. ' 3 \\ not know about 

his articles of • . engines is not worth 

apprenticeship are •*] knowing." 

here reproduced, The „ - /-• >\ * *\ ^ ^ cw ^ ours l ater 

same year he L ^_,__. t^. r „■*__. t' ie young neophfte 

matriculated at the FACSIMlliE OF . RECK ^ for william neiix's was sailin S out oE 

Royal College of apprenticeship fees. the Mersey as fourth 

Surgeons of Ireland^, engineer of the 
and entered on a regular course of medical Mentmare, at a salary of ten pounds a 
studies. Two years later he passed success- month and <( all found.'' He had hidden a 

fully the first part of the examination — final godd^J|yCFf^W^f^iWCM(3[^t4 aur °' ^'^^t 

1 82 




he felt was his true vocation , and was as elated 
as any young man who feels his feet at last 
firmly planted on the ladder. Almost hefore 
he knew where he was, he became a full- 
fledged member of the Marine Engineers' 

For the next fourteen years there followed 
a continuous series of engagements as third 
and second engineer on steamers of every 
kind and every tonnage— coasting steamers, 
tramps, oil tanks, and great ocean-going 
leviathans, as shown by his Certificate Hook, 
some pages of which are here reproduced 
in facsimile. Today he is in Antwerp, to- 
morrow in Tokio or Valparaiso. He sees 
the world as only the seafaring man can, 
picks up a smattering of half-a-dozen modern 
languages, and, with his scientific training 
and receptive mind, hacked by his abstemious 
habit s, acquires sufficient exact and curious 
information about men and things to furnish 
matter for a respectable encyclopaedia. 

In 1899 he is second engineer on the 
eight-thousand- ton Puritan, carrying loco- 
motives and railway material from Phila- 
delphia to Vladivostok — a seventy-five days' 
voyage — coal from Simoneseki to Singapore, 
sugar from Java to New York* Next he is 
on the Goolistan, churning up the wide 
Euphrates. In the interval he has managed, 
while in London, to pass the examination for 
the coveted first engineer's certificate oi 
the Board of Trade. 

In 1903 he is on the Cam, which becomes a 
total wreck in the Red Sea, within a days 
steam of her destination, Massowah. Every- 
thing he possessed in the world, save the 
clothes he stood in T went to the bottom. 
The captain and Neill are the last to leave the 

vessel, Tkey are 

almost within 
sight of the 
African shore, 
but are afraid to 
land on account 
of the Arabs, 

For nearly four 
days they an 
adrift in an open 
boat, with 
nothing to s*js- 
tain them except 
a few biscuits 
Finally, they are 
picked up by the 
Anchor liner 
Olympian and 





brought to Marseilles, Eleven months later 
Neill is wrecked again, this time in tin* 
Menaniic, on the inhospitable southern cra^t 
of South America. Once more he is saved 
at the cost of a tramp of many miles along the 
precipitous cliffs to the nearest Chilean town, 
Bajo Imperial. 

Finally, after a number of other en- 
gagemm^ aJ yji a |i||0^ T| he is appointed to tk 




the twenty-five-thousand-ton Baltic, then 
commanded by Captain E. J. Smith, who 
went down later on the ill-fated Titanic. 

On returning to Liverpool, after the fourth 
round trip, the deck engineer learns that the 
official who appointed him is no longer in 
office ; another reigns in his place. When 
Neill in paid off his discharge certificate is 
stamped as it always has been — " Very Good/' 
both for diligence and conduct. 

The discharged man has saved a little money, 
and, nothing daunted, he decides to rest for a 
week or two in Liverpool and then try London. 
Eventually he buys a bicycle, makes the 
journey in leisurely fashion by road, then sets 
forth to find another berth. From the start 
he is unsuccessful — rebuff follows rebuff. 

His little nest-egg is rapidly diminishing. 
Weeks follow weeks, and he is no nearer the 
desired goal. First he finds this enforced 
idleness irksome; this purposeless knocking 
about frets his soul, then demoralization 
slowly creeps in and undermines his self- 
confidence. Already he doubts his ability 
to " give satisfaction." A recent attack of 
anaemia makes him think he is unfit for 
hard work, tuid thus he* drifts along, until 
hunger stares him in the face. His clothes 
hive ceased 1 Jo , be shabby— they are worse ; 
his^rhpl^^paptrance is unkempt, almost wild. 
Now KsccfuerHesire is not to find work, but 
merely a jhorsel of bread to still the gnawing 
pains _ofJirfnger. 

Like some grim spectre, aimlessly, purpose- 
lessly, he walks swiftly along the streets, 
pausing nowhere, looking neither to right nor 
left, head and shoulders above the crowd. 
And there is so much restrained pathos in his 
figure, such hopeless misery in his unseeing 
eyes, that a -woman hurries after him and slips 
a coin into his hand. And now a remarkable 
thing happens — this man of sound education 
and uncommon intellect accepts the alms 
in the spirit in which it was given. He has 
no feeling of revolt, no false shame. Possibly 
a long course of heartache, of utter loneliness 
and physical depression, has corroded his 
once lucid mind ; possibly, too, in a sort of 
defiance to Fate, he accepted the woman's 
gesture as a sign, as a guidance from above. 
Be that as it may, from that moment he re- 
nounces his past, he enters on a new phase 
of life. And, what is eminently characteristic 
of the man, he does this coolly, methodically, 
as if he were simply giving up one profession 
for another. The few coppers he receives 
daily represent to him his income, an income 
legitimately earned — for, as I said before, he 
never begs. 

Eight years have elapsed since then. When 
he began to earn his livelihood in this way 
he was still in the prime of life — now he is 
. fifty-two. Livelihood is a relative expression. 
During the whole period his " income " — 
the term is his own — has seldom exceeded a 
maximum of a shilling a day ; occasionally 
it falls below fivepence, the sum indispensable 
to procure a night's shelter in Seven Dials. 
On such occasions there is no resource 
but to tramp the streets all night. But 
this is a rare occurrence, and, moreover, 
he will tell* you, does not involve any very 
great hardship. So thorough is his self- 
discipline that, apparently, the vagaries of 
the weather are beneath his notice. By 
night, as by day, he moves almost mechani- 
cally, wrapped in his thoughts and detached 
from his environment, as though it did not 
exist. Also, he is not compelled to remain in 
the streets after four o'clock in the morning. 
At that hour the compassionate manager of the 
lodging-house allows him to enter the public 
kitchen, where there is always a fire and the 
necessary utensils to cook food. 

Before the war, a total daily " income " 
of ninepence, or even eightpence — that is to 
say, threepence or fourpence above the cost of 
a bed— sufficed for his wants ; now, with the 
enhanced price of food, his ambition is to earn 
a shilling a day. And so, at best, after he has 
paid for his bed, he can only lay out seven- 
p£hce for his food. 

So limited a budget has, perforce, to be 
carefully thought out. Here is his bill of fare 
for the day : — 

A packet of tea, sufficient for three meals, 
one penny ; bread, threepence ; sugar, half- 
penny ; margarine, one penny ; milk, one 
penny ; bloater, very occasionally, when 
funds permit, one penny. 

W hen, which happens not inf requently , hehas 
not sufficient money to buy tea, the tea-leaves 
left in a pot used by one of his fellow-lodgers 
provide a substitute. Meat hardly ever enters 
his diet, though in times of plenty a sheep's 
head is to be had for threepence. Vegetables 
he never purchases. There are certain streets 
where stray vegetables, potatoes principally, 
abound, waiting, as it were, to be picked up. 
They have been dropped by hawkers obliged, 
for some reason or other, to pack their stock in 
a hurry. There are people, too, who consider- 
ately leave remnants of their luiich, consisting 
of sandwiches, on a window-sill in some back 
alley, and these are rare bits that are speedily 
pounced upon. 

To-day, when the necessity for strict 
economy is being pnachecf frOit; the housetops, 

i8 4 


and food experts are vying with one another in 
teaching us how we can halve our bills, it may 
not be inopportune to point out that the 
rfgime followed by this man appears in no 
way to have impaired his health* True, he 
is spare almost to the point of emaciation, 
but he declares he has not known a day's 
illness for eight years, He covers ground 
extraordinarily quickly ; and his gait is free 
and easy , and eloquently proves how abso- 
lutely untrammelled he is by any physical 
complaint. He is, in a word, a fine example 
of the triumph of mind over matter. 

His attitude towards the war, as towards 
everything else, is one of complete -detach- 
ment ; yet he has a good grip of the facts and 
the changing situation from day to day. He 
seldom sees the inside of a newspaper ; all his 
knowledge is gleaned from the newspaper 
contents bills. 

For eight years he has not entered a con- 
veyance of any kind 3 not even a bus, never 
once been inside a reading - room or any 
public building. The reason he gives is sad 
and complex. He is conscious of his dilapi- 
dated appearance, and is mindful to spare 
his neighbours 1 feelings — surely the acme of 
humility. Or is it pride ? 

He does not believe in the legendary stories 
of fortunes made in the streets. Here and 
there he has heard a man boast he had been 
tipped in gold, but it left him incredulous. 
His personal experience accounts for this. 
Occasionally , so rarely that he can recall 
each separate incident, 
he has received a 
shilling for a box of 
matches. And once, 
op a red-letter day, 
he received two half- 
crowns from two dif- 
ferent people. A third 
half-crown was given 
to him by a lady one 
dark winter evening 
quite recently. As she 
hurried away he was 
struck by her shabby 
clothes, and came to 
the conclusion she had 
made a mistake, He 
ran after her, and 
discovered that she 
had supposed the coin 
to be a penny. She 
was overjoyed to get 
it back, and gave 
him twopence. He is 


HAS0CCA " 01 

more lucky in the way of clothes, A kind 
Providence sees to this. By a fortunate 
coincidence, when the clothes on his back, 
or his boots, can do service no longer, some- 
body is moved to replace them* That some- 
body was once an (minibus conductor who 
tossed a bundle at him as he rattled past. 
On one occasion an Army surgeon, now at the 
Front, made a sketch of him, and a few weeks 
later, last Christmas night t we lve month s the 
model received a surprise visit at his lodging- 
house from the kindly artist, who gave him a 
dinner of roast beef and a friendly chat. 
Another artist, a lady this time, struck by 
his dolorous expression, painted a picture of 
him. Such is the sum-total of his il adven- 
tures lf in the streets, 

Through all his vicissitudes he has retained 
a remarkable memory. To while away the 
time, w hen he stands by the hour in t lie shelter 
of a passage, his tin platter slung round his 
neck. waiting patiently for the charitable hand 
that will spare him a copper, he mentally leaps 
back to his scholar days. He still can juggle 
with Greek verbs, memorize the second aorist, 
and repeat without hesitation Boyle and 
Marriott's law of the absolute zero of tempera- 
ture. It is impossible to convey the sad incon- 
gruity of hearing this man in rags and tatters 
emit, for instance, in the smooth at runts that 
only a classical education seems able to give, 
that a gas loses one two-hundred-and-seventy- 
third part of its volume for every degree 
Centigrade it falls in temperature. It is, 

indeed, bewildering. 

All questions about 
himself he answers 
readily, without appa- 
rent reticence- In spite 
of this, the inner man 
remains a mystery. 
His resignation, his 
passivity are almost 
uncanny, M What is the 
good of owning any- 
thing ? J? he asks, in a 
dispassionate tone. 
11 Sooner or later you 
must leave everything 
behind." Is this the 
result of a sort of 
amemiu of the will, or 
is it an extra- lucid state 
of mind which makes 
him ready to exclaim 
with the Preacher, 
" Vanity of vanities, 




Irish Characters and 

Irish Wit. 

By M. McD. BODKIN, K.C. 

Illustrated by Treyer Evans. 

NCE upon a time Lever's 
books were the most popular 
pictures of Ireland. His hard- 
drinking, hard-riding, frolick- 
ing, rollicking Irish heroes, 
■ Charles O'Malley, Jack Hinton, 
and Burke of Ours, were prime 
favourites with novel readers. Mickey Fine 
rivalled Sam Weller. Then the reaction 
came. In quieter times Lever's reckless 
heroes were regarded as impossible, mere 
outlandish creatures of the writer's imagina- 
tion. That was a mistake, though a very 
natural mistake. In the counties of Galway 
and Mayo Lever's heroes had the high old 
times which he describes, full of the joy of 
life, living only for the present, oblivious 
alike of the past and the future. Their 
extravagances were redeemed by courage, 
generosity, and humour. 

My father was a Bodkin of Galway. We 
have it on the high authority of Lever that 
The Bodkins sneeze at the grim Chinese, 
They come from the Phoenicians. 

Moreover, they boast themselves one of the 
famous Twelve Tribes of Ye Ancient Citie of 
Galway. Many and various are the accounts 
of the origin of the Tribes. I only remember 
one, which the great preacher and famous 
humorist, Father Tom Burke, O.P., used to 
tell with infinite relish. It was a version, 
I may add, not popular with members of the 

In the good old times a Spanish ship was 
wrecked off the coast of Galway. The crew 
were rescued and brought before the King 
of Connaught, who was a mighty monarch in 
those days. Solomon in all his glory was 
not arrayed in the least like the King of 
Connaught. There was, however, one serious 
defect in his gorgeous get-up. Like Achilles, 
he was vulnerable in the heel. In plain 
English, the resplendent Sovereign went 
barefoot. It is not surprising, therefore, 
that he cast covetous eyes at the stout leather 
brogues in which the feet of the Spanish 

Vol. 11- 13. 

prisoners were encased. Pair after pair, he 
tried them on himself, vainly, as the wicked 
sisters tried on the slipper of Cinderella. 
The feet of the monarch were of royal pro- 
portions, and the kingly toes could not be 
squeezed into any one of the brogues. 

Thereupon he returned the prisoners to 
the King of Spain with handsome presents 
for his brother Sovereign, and a request, 
couched in the choicest language of diplomacy, 
that his Majesty of Spain should send in 
return twelve pairs of the biggest brogues 
in his kingdom. Either the Connaught 
king's handwriting was illegible or an initial 
letter got obliterated by the salt water. 
This much, at least, is certain : when the 
document came to the eyes of the King of 
Spain it read " twelve pairs of the biggest 
rogues in Spain." Very willingly the king 
complied with the strange request, the 
rogues were collected by proclamation, and 
the cargo dispatched. 

Thus were founded the Twelve Tribes of 
Galway. But it is not always safe to tell 
this story in mixed company in Connaught. 

In these troublesome times, when our nerves 
are kept constantly on the rack, a brief excur- 
sion into this region of reckless jollity may 
prove a pleasant and not wholly unprofit- 
able vacation. My father was a young man 
when those rollicking days were drawing 
to a close, and it is to him I am indebted for 
the following descriptions and stories which 
acquit Lever of exaggeration. 

As no sort of sequence is attempted in 
these roundabout recollections, as well here 
as elsewhere may be said a few words about 
the most famous physician of his generation. 
Sir Dominick Corrigan, as I remember him 
in the very height of his fame, was the least 
affected or pretentious of men. Hypocrisy 
had no attraction for him. He did not believe 
in humouring the hypochondriac, however 
rich or important. 

On one occasion my father brought Corrigan 
down specially to see a wealthy patient of 




his in the County of Galway. Sir Dominick 
was much more confident than my father of 
the patient's recovery. Still, with the doc- 
tor's proverbial caution he declined to commit 
himself. " In a week's time," he said, " I 
expect he will be completely out of danger." 
Within a week's time the patient was dead. 
When Sir Dominick met my father some 
time after he inquired : — 

" Well, Bodkin, how is our patient ? " 

" Dead." 

u You don't tell me so ! I suppose his 
people regard me as an absolute fraud ? " 

" On the contrary, they consider you a 
prophet, a medical magician." 

" In the name of wonder, why ? " 

" Do you remember what you told them ? " 

" That the patient would recover." 

" No ; you said in a week's time he would 
be out of danger." 

" Well ? " 

" He died the last hour of the last day 
of the week. They are convinced ff he had 
lived another hour he would have been 

One other story may be slipped in here 
characteristic of the genial Corrigan's good- 
humour. He had for a patient a prominent 
solicitor named Meldon, a contemporary of 
his own, and like himself a martyr to well- 
earned gout. Corrigan advised him to abstain 
from champagne ; he took the advice and his 
gout almost entirely disappeared. It chanced, 
however, some months later that he was 
dining at a big public banquet side by side 
with his physician. The champagne was of 
an attractive brand, but Meldon reluctantly 
covered his glass with his hand as the bottle 
came round. To his amazement Corrigan's 
glass was regularly filled and drained. Flesh 
and blood could stand it no longer. 

" Corrigan," he began, " didn't you tell 
me champagne was bad for gout ? " 

" So it is. How is your gout since you gave 
it up?" 

" Almost gone. But " 

" Well ? " 

" You are as great a victim to gout as ever 
I was." 

" Greater, my dear fellow, greater." 

" Then, why in the devil's name do you 
drink champagne ? " 

11 I will answer your question, Meldon, 
by another. Which do you prefer, your 
health or your champagne ? " 

" My health, of course." 

" Well, I prefer my champagne." 

There was no more to be said. 

My father had many stories to tell of the 

rollicking, devil-may-care gentry of Galway 
and Mayo, stories which also help to acquit 
Charles Lever of exaggeration. The two chief 
heroes of the stories were John Bodkin of 
Kilclooney, M.P. for the County of Galway, 
and " Big Joe McDonnell," M.P., of Doo 
Castle (aptly so named), member for the 
County of Mayo. 

In those days it was a common custom 
after the ladies had retired from dinner to 
lock the door on the inside and throw the 
key out of the window. Then every man was 
compelled, in the immortal words of Sarah 
Gamp, " to drink fair." A pint of salt water 
was the penalty for refusing a bumper of 
claret at every round of the decanter. Is it 
to be wondered at that many of the guests 
spent the remnant of the night on the carpet 
under the dining-table ? Nor were these 
customs wholly confined to the West. I 
have in my possession a vast round table of 
shiny black mahogany with a huge mahogany 
trunk for its central pillar. It is reputed to 
have been the dining-table of Lord Mountjoy, 
which I deported from his former mansion in 
Henrietta Street. When it first came into 
my possession the under edges were care- 
fully padded with worn green baize. I 
can find no other explanation of the padding 
of the table than the host's considerate regard 
for the heads of his guests when they chanced 
to fall under it. 

The Galway gentleman was a firm believer 
in the philosophy of Horace ; he took the 
good which to-day had to give him with no 
thought of yesterday or to-morrow. John 
Bodkin of Kilclooney was involved in a 
Chancery suit in which a valuable slice of 
his large estate was at stake. An essential 
affidavit was to be sworn by the owner of 
the property. Early one morning his solicitor 
drove about six miles from Tuam to Kil- 
clooney, to find his erratic client at home. 

" Go into Tuam to swear an affidavit ! " 
protested John Bodkin ; " quite impossible, 
my dear fellow ; it's the best day for trout that 
has come this year " (he was the best fly- 
fisher in Galway). " We may not have 
another like it for six months." 

The solicitor, however, helped by my father, 
over-persuaded him. He actually got on the 
car for the drive, but as the horse was start- 
ing he shouted, ** Wait a moment ! " 

Then, plunging through the open door of 
the room he was pleased to call his study, 
he picked up his trout-rod and vanished 
through the back door into the open world 
beyond. There were fish to be caught, and 
affidavit and estate might go hang. 





Even John Bodkin of Kilclooney, however, 
pales his ineffectual fire trefore " Big Joe 
McDonnell " of Doo Castle, For many 
years he had represented his county in 
Parliament without even once opening his 
lips in the House. Politics apart, the position 
of member of Parliament was very useful to 
Joe, He found the immunity from arrest for 
debt which it conferred especially 
convenient- For Joe always abounded 
iri creditors. The righteous indigna- 
tion of the Irish landlords of our 
own time — when the tenants ob- 
structed the processes of the law— is 
a little comical when it is remem- 
bered that a favourite landlord 
amusement in the old days was to 
make the process- server swallow the 
writs he came to serve, 

A Dublin wine - merchant, from 
whom Joe had carried off to Doo 
Castle (on credit, of course) a canal 
boat of his choicest wines, began 
after a time, possibly made nervous 
from echoing rumours of Joe's repu- 
tation, to press hard for payment. 

Joe responded by a cordial invita- 
tion to visit him at Doo Castle, 

and the merchant went. It was a scene 
of open-door rollicking hospitality, The 
good merchant's choicest wines were 
drunk by the jovial host and guests in 
tumblerfuls. After a few weeks he could 
endure it no longer. By this time he had 
almost abandoned all hope of payment, 
but he thought he might make some sal- 
vage from the wreck. One morning he 
appealed to Joe in the room he called 
his study at Doo Castle. 

" Mr. McDonnell/' he said, " may I 
have a word with you ? " 

* f Certainly , my dear boy, certainly. 
Only too delighted." 

11 Well, I am a little embarrassed, and 
you may help me out. I have an order 
from a very old customer for some of 
the vintage wines I have supplied to you ; 
unfortunately, I have none in stock, so I 
thought you might perhaps let me have 
some back. I would allow you, of course, 
the full price in your account," 

" That's very kind of you, very kind 

" I would not inconvenience you for 
the world, but it seems to me that the 
gentlemen I have met here would just 
as soon have whisky punch as those 

u As soon have it ! " interrupted joe ; 
" they would a great deal sooner have it, 
if they could get it," 

1 Then, in the name of goodness," cried 
the merchant, startled out of his prim 
propriety, tl why not let them have whisky 
punch instead of costly wine ? " 

" My dear sir," whispered Joe, confiden- 
tially, with his hand on the other's knee, 






" where do you think would I find the 
ready money for the lemons ? r - 

As I have said, Joe never opened his lips 
in the House of Commons , but there was no 
more persuasive speaker on the hustings, 
none more adroit in the art of bamboozling 
a crowd. 

Let a single illustration suffice* On one 
occasion Joe, standing as the champion 
of the " ould faith " in Mayo, was caught 
by a horrified supporter eating meat on a 
Friday. Instantly his popularity departed. 
There was a shout of derision when he 
appeared on a platform. li Give him an 
egg, boys, to take the taste of mate off his 
mouth ! ** and an egg whizzed past his ear, 
11 Big Joe" was equal to the occasion. He 
drew a letter from his pocket, 

M Does anyone here/' he roared out in a 
voice of thunder that dominated the tumult — 
14 does anyone here know the handwriting 
of his Holiness Pope Pius the Ninth ? " 

There was a moment's pause. No one 
seemed to know the handwriting of his 
Holiness, Without waiting for an answer, 
Joe read the letter at the top of his voice :— 

My Dear Joe, — I am well pleased to hear you 
are Ugh ting for the old faith down in Mayo, You are 
neither to fast nor abstain while the good work is 
in hand. 

With kind regards for yourself and the boys that 
are helping you ? I remain. 

Yours very sincerely, 

Pope Pius IX. 

A roar of applause followed the name, and 
" Big Joe " was once more the popular hero* 

" Big Joe McDonnell Jt drank twenty- 
one tumblers of punch regu- 
larly every night after his 
dinner, so I have heard from 
a dozen eye- witnesses. But he 
never tasted acoholic drink 
be f o re d inn e r , I was pri vil eged 
to see a letter written a short 
time before his death, in his 

^a A 



seventy - sixth year, in w T hich he strongly 
recommended temperance to the young men 
o£ Ireland, 

The popular story runs that i( Big Joe's t? 
assets consisted of a flute, a bagpipes, and an 
Irish setter. It is certain he was an accom- 
plished player on the bagpipes. His bag- 
pipes came into possession of his grand- 
daughter, Miss IVArcy, who presented them 
to the National Museum, It is said that on 
one occasion " Big Joe " determined to 
enliven the dull routine of the House of 

Commons by a spirited 
tune on his favourite 
pipes, and with this 
intent had carried his 
instrument with him 
into the front lobby, 
but was captured by 
his friends at the door 
of the legislative 



Descending to more 
recent times, 1 purpose 
introducing the readers 
of this magazine w T ho 
have not heretofore 
made his acquaintance 
to the wittiest man of 
his generation. Half an 
hours chat with Father 
James Healy, who was 
for many years parish 
priest of Little Bra\\ 





about twelve miles from Dublin, and was 
known to his intimates as the Vicar of Bray, 
will prove a pleasant relief from the eternal 
and oppressing topic of war, I had the 
supreme advantage of the personal friendship 
of Father Healy, and most of the following 
stories, which, I trust, will justify my eulogy, 
come within my personal knowledge. It 
may indeed with truth be 

A merrier man 
Within the limits of becoming 

None ever spent an hour's talk 


For many years he held a 
unique position in Dublin. He 
was the Sydney Smith of the 
Irish metropolis 3 a u diner-out 
of the first water." His social 
charm made him a welcome 
guest at the table of such men 
as Gladstone, Salisbury, and 
Disraeli* It was the ambition 
of every distinguished man who 
lived in Dublin, or who visited 
Dublin, to dine in Father 
Healy' s company. In one of 
Lord Randolph Churchill's 
letters, preserved in the admirable biography 
by his son , he writes, after a session of unusual 
stress, that nothing could restore him but 
" a night spent in Father Healy's company." 
The festivities of Dublin circled round him. 
He was overwhelmed with the invitations 
of the great, while, on the other hand, an 
invitation to his own humble li shanty J> 
in Little Bray was the most prized of all 
social distinctions. A ceremonious Viceregal 
banquet would be immediately postponed 
if it were found that the padre was 
giving one of his little dinners the same day 
and had honoured the Viceroy with an 

Those eagerly-sought- for dinners con- 
sisted of a single joint, sometimes preceded 
by fish or soup. He had one servant, who, 
when she had cooked the dinner, attended 
at table. On one occasion a noble visitor 
who had been brought by the Viceroy to 
dinner , much to the amusement of the other 
guests, looked round for someone to take his 

u Excuse me, my lord/' interposed Father 
Healy, " all my footmen left without notice 
this morning and I have not had time to 
replace them ; I will take your coat myself, 
if you will kindly allow me." 

Father Healy was poor. The income of his 




parish did not exceed two hundred pounds a 
year, at the outside, and he used to say good- 
humouredly he did not know how he would 
live at all if it were not for the " outdoor 
relief ? ' he received. His outdoor relief, 
which took the form o£ fruit, game, and 
wine, he freely shared with the poorest 
of his parishioners. 

Nor were the game from the 
preserves, fruit from the hot- 
houses , and wines from the 
cellars of the nobility the only 
forms which Father Healy's 
u outdoor relief " assumed. His 
well -to-do parishioners made 
liberal contributions to his 
larder. A fine clutch of young 
ducks arrived among these 
gifts, and Father Healy watched 
their progress from the pond to 
the table with lively satisfac- 
tion. Seeing them sporting in 
the water, he exclaimed, with 
a whimsical compassion, Lfe Poor 
innocents, how they enjoy 
themselves, never thinking that 
my green peas are growing on 
the other side of the garden 
wall ! » 

The gifted Father Healy, the chosen friend 
of the great ones of the world, was of humble 
origin j and was never ashamed of it. His father 
was a provision merchant in James Street, 
and to the end Father Healy retained pleasant 
recollections of his father's occupation. 

One day j when driving in a gig with an 
aristocratic friend } their way was blocked 
by a drove of pigs. 

The aristocrat so far forgot himself as to 
exclaim : — 

" Damn those swine ! " 
Father Healy quietly interposed, " I 
would rather see them saved*" 

After all, it is no small wonder that Father 
Healy lives in the mind of the general public 
chiefly as a sayer of good things. He has 
been compared to Sydney Smith, but the 
comparison is hardly just to Father Healy, 
The wit of the Irishman was not the less 
brilliant of the two, and he had a quiet, keen 
humour which was all his own. There never 
was a staunch er friend : he maintained to 
the last his friendship with Judge Keogh, 
even after Judge Keogh became generally 
obnoxious to the priests and people of Ireland 
by his ferocious judgment in the Gal way 
election petition. But Father Healy did not 
spare his friend an occasional sharp touch 
where the occasion seemed to demand it. 





In a quasi-political trial Father Healy was 
summoned as a witness, and was chaffed 
by Judge Keogh about the dangers of cross- 

11 What will you do. Father Healy " said 
the judge, u if that villain Butt cross- 
examines you as to your friendship with me ? ?T 

" I will do my best," replied Father Healy, 

" What will you answer/* the judge per- 
sisted, ll if he asks ? ( Is it true that you, a good 
Catholic and an Irishman., arc a friend of the 
infamous Judge Keogh ? ' ,J 

11 I will appeal to the court for protection/' 
retorted Father Healy. M I will say, ' My 
lord, am I bound to incriminate myself ? ' 

On another occasion the judge met him 
and stopped him. 

" Father Healy/' he said, abruptly, " I 
have a crow to pluck with you." 

t( Let it be a turkey, and I will be with you 
at six p*m,/ r said Father Healy, 

Another of Father Healy' s spinal friends 
was Father Meehan, a distinguished author, 
whose caustic tongue alienated most of his 
acquaintances. Even Father Healy himself 
did not always escape, but he gave as good 
as he got. They travelled together on the 
Continent, and Father Healy took occasion 

more than once to give Father Meehan a touch 
of the caustic he so freely applied to others. 
On one occasion at an hotel, meeting some 
friends, and ignoring the fact that Father 
Meehan was within earshot, he proceeded 
to describe him to the company. 

M Do you see that fellow yonder? Though 
we are not on speaking terms, we are obliged 
to travel together because he cannot manage 
one word of the French and is obliged to 
come to me to help him out of every difficulty. 3 ' 

The fact that Father Meehan was an 
admirable linguist ga% T e special sting to the 

Next day Father Healy received a curt 
note from Father Meehan intimating that they 
must part company, and requesting the return 
of a razor he had lent. Father Healy 
replied : — 

My Dear Meehan,— I return you the razor. It 
you should want to commit suicide I should advise 
you to £*?t it ground first* 

Never posing as a politician, the Father dis- 
tributed his good-humoured raps with perfect 
impartiality to the extremists of both sides. 
Meeting a parish priest who had been active 
in the agrarian agitation, Father Healy 
asked him how he was getting on at politics. 

** Oh, Father Healy/' the friend Teplied, 
" I am getting too old for politics; I leave 
all that kind of thing to my curate," 

+< Quite right," Father Healy retorted, 

SO WEI^.talflLtKalrf^riCftCtrPATION WOULD BE 




<( quite right. It would never suit you at 
your time of Hie to lie out at night in a wet 
ditch for a pot-shot at a landlord. You 
would get your death from rheumatism." 

On the other hand, when Mr, Balfour on 
one occasion 'asked him if there was any 
truth in the statements in the Nationalist 
papers that he was 
generally disliked in 
I reland, Father Healy 
promptly replied :— 

11 My dear sir, if 
the devil were half 
so well hated my 
occupation would be 

To attempt a selec- 
tion of his good 
things is to attempt 
the impossible. They 
flowed from him as 
freely and carelessly 
as the jewels from 
the lips of the little 
girl in the fairy tale, 
and only a few have 
been picked up and 
treasured in the 
memory of his 
friends and admirers. 

Nothing happier 
can be imagined 
than his reply to the 
dyspeptic priest 
whom he encountered 
fresh from his sea- 
water bath, and who, 

having assured him that he often derived 
much benefit from drinking a tumblerful of 
salt water, anxiously inquired : — 

M Do ;*ou think I might venture on a 
second ? " 

Father Healy, after grave consideration 
solemnly answered, "I think you might; 
I don't believe it would be missed/' 

On another occasion there was a discussion 
in company regarding an illiterate acquain- 
tance who had suddenly taken to constant 
attendance in Kildare Street Library. Various 
opinions were advanced to account for this 
metamorphosis. One of the company at 
hist suggested that he had heard their friend 
was about " to bring out a book," Father 
Healy interposed with a quiet objection : — 

"I don't think he can; he is too well 

A familiar friend, introducing Father Healy 
to his new library and pointing to the books 
on the well-filled shelves, exclaimed ; — 


" You see around you my dearest friends ! " 

Father Healy took a volume from the 
shelf and examined it. 

f< I observe/ 7 he said, quietly, " that you 
don't cut your friends/' 

Not less felicitous was his retort to his friend 
the Protestant archbishop, whom he met as 

he was hurrying for 
a train. The arch- 
bishop showed him 
his watch and assured 
him that they had 
abundance of time. 
They arrived to see 
the train steaming 
out of the station. 

The archbishop 
was much distressed. 
" I cannot tell how 
it happened, Father 
Healy ; it is a valu- 
a b 1 e presentation 
watch, and I had 
the utmost faith in 
it/ 1 

t£ Better have had 
good works in it," 
retorted Father 

He had a discus- 
sion with a distin- 
guished lady at a 
garden-party at the 
Viceregal Lodge as to 

THE TRAIN STEAMING the P"' favouritism 

station/' played in Irish pro- 

motions, The lady 
stoutly maintained that success was the 
reward of ability and industry. 

11 Men get on/' she said, il by sticking at 
their business/' 

Father Healy indicated a lawyer politician 
who had just risen to a very distinguished 
position. ' How would you say he got on ? " 
he asked , innocently. 

" By sticking at his business/' the lady 
stoutly replied, 

" You surprise me" said Father Healy, 
(f I always thought he got on by sticking at 
nothing/ 1 

Father Healy could take a joke as well as 
make one. There was no taint in his nature 
of that prudery that takes offence where 
none is intended. 

It is told, with what truth I know not, 
that one Christmas night at a small gathering 
at the Viceregal Lodge the beautiful Countess 
Spencer (Spenser's (l Faerie Queene/' as she 
was called in Iriiknid) &tood defiantly under a 






cluster of silver berries and sent a playful 

challenge to Father Healy* 

" Kow^ padre, now is your chance under 

the mistletoe/' 
Like a flash came the smiling reply : — 
11 Oh, no, my lady; we only do that sub 


I was walking with Father Healy through 
Westmorland Street when a ragged loafer 
came begging to him. Pointing after him 
as he slouched away, sixpence richer than he 
came. Father Healy said to me : — 

II That's a nice condition for a poor Irish 

" Why, in the name of wonder/ ' I exclaimed, 
11 do vou say that fellow is an Irish land- 
lord ? - " 

u He has the universal and infallible 

lt And that is ? " 

11 A rent in a rear," 

On another occasion I met Father Healy 
hurrying along the platform in Westland Row 
Station. The fish for one of his little dinners 
had miscarried, 

u I am looking for a lost sole/' he explained, 

11 Well/' said I, when the situation was 
made plain to me, " I hope it will be a good 
sole when you find it." 

u It it is not/' Father Healy promptly 
responded , ** it will be damned/' 

Though Father Healy deservedly ranks as 
one of the brightest and most genial Irish 
humorists, and as a saver of good things 
he holds his own with Swift, Moore, Curran, 
and OXonnell, yet amongst those who knew 
him best it is the unostentatious piety and 
kindly heart t <k open as day to melting 
charity/' of the Soggarth Aroon that are 
best remembered. 

The following is one of the many stories 
told of his whimsical benevolence. Father 
Healy had in his parish and under his charge 
a schoolmistress whom he regarded with 
special favour. The j_ r irl was musical and 
anxious to cultivate her talent. With this 
object she resolved to buy a piano on 
the three years' system, and applied to 
Father Healy for the necessary certificate 
of character to be forwarded with her appli- 
cation, She was much distressed for two long 
days to receive no reply, and feared she had 
offended the priest, but on the third day 
Father Healy himself came to her cottage, and 
behind him a donkey-cart containing a piano, 

M It's my own ? my dear/' he said, 41 I am 
getting too old for music, so instead of giving 
you a character which you don't require, 1 
give you a piano which you do." 



... pi 






Illustrated by Thomas Henry. 


|{0U excuse me ? I have lived 
a long time in this country, 
and I speak English very 
well. But perhaps in writing 
I make some faults. The 
ffl Editor say he shall correct 
the faults if I tell to you the 

history that I told to him. But perhaps he 

forget, or perhaps he go out to take some- 
thing to drink, What can I do ? Am I 

the master of him ? No. 
I came into this country to learn the 

languages to wait in 

a restaurant, to study, 

to save money^ and 

then to start a place 

myself, I might have 

gone to my uncle's 

restaurant in Paris. 

It was what you call 

a toss-up. But my 

uncle said it was 

better to learn one 

more language and to 

go through some mills. 

He was a wise man. 

It needs to be wise to 

make money out of a 

table d'hote at one 

franc fifty. 

Behold me, then, 

engaged in the 

Restaurant Merveil- 

leusc of Oxford Street. 

And did I go through 

some mills ? As mon- 
sieur of New York 

says, I shall smile, 
I shall tell you 

the truth. From the 

beginning, immedi- 
ately as he see me, the 

proprietor of the Restaurant Merveilleuse 
hate me. I have the good will, the activity, 
the nice appearance > and still he hate me. 
He treat me as a dog and 4 pig- Also he 
was Italian and warm stuff. Man Dieu ! 
What insults ! What bad food ! What 
little money ! What misery ! 

Suppose I make some errors i is not that 
a very natural thing in the world ? Consider 
well that to me the English money is all 
new — the twelve pennies and twenty shillings^ 
and the half-crown so much like the florin* 

Vet if I make a mis- 
take I must pay, and 
the signor rage 
furiously besides. 
Again , for the break- 
ages I pay at fixed 
price, so much a 
month. Yet if I drop 
some trays of glasses, 
again the sign or rage 
furiously. Am I ? then, 
to pay the fixed price 
and have nothing for 
it ? What injustice ! 
One day I drop a 
portion of asparagus 
bturre fondu on the 
back of a customer. 
No doubt it is not 
correct, but still, the 
butter is not much, 
and the asparagus can 
nearly ali do again. It 
may be that I smile 
a little , for, after all, 
a waiter is a man and 
not a stone image. 
And for that I am 
treated as a criminal. 


IQNDU ' os THE BACK OF OltiffigfffOF Ml 


one day the 



signor call me forty - three different bad 
names. 1 write them all down that I may 

Also, there was a customer at lunch who 
was most particular. He ask me to give 
three special dircc tions to the chef about his 
steak-and-fried. The English mustard will 
not do j and I am to get tho other. I am to 
have the chill just taken off a small bottle 
of claret^ such as in my country we would 
use for furniture-polish. Unless the Camcm- 
bert is in perfect condition it will not suit 
the lordship. It is very well to give trouble 
if you pay. But this man gave a tip of two 
pennies. So I say a few words in French, 
Of course, I did not give his directions to 
the ckef f and I did not warm a vei*y cheap 
claret, but he does not know that, and I 
have a right to my feelings. Also the 
customer, as I well knew, understood no 
French, and so there was no impoliteness. 
But for that little thin^ the proprietor say 
he wish to throw me into the street, and 
insult me other ways. Very bad supper I 
have that night and not fit fur pig*. 

But what do you wish that I tell you ? 
It is well known — 
if a man desire to 
find fault with 
another he can 
always do it. One 
day the signor 
blame me for lying, 
next day he blamed 
me again because I 
tell a customer that 
the difference be* 
tween the three- 
penny cigar and the 
fourpenny was none 
at all except in the 
price, and this was 
perfectly true. 
Either way I am 
wrong, I can do 

Why, then, does 
he not give me some 
sack ? I tell you. 
Firsts I have the 
good will, the 
activity , and the 
nice appearance. 
Alsoj as I then 

speak very little English, I am most cheap. 
But more than all, he hate me too much to 
part from me. He wish always to have 
me in his power , so that he may give me 
always more in suits , and harder work, and 

food that would poison the elephant. He 
is like that, the signor. 

But why do not I myself give the signor 
the notice ? I shall make the clean breast. 
It is that I have a heart. It is that, at the 
deep, I am more artist than waiter, It is 
that I have seen — that I have learned even 
to love — a English miss who lunch here with 
her papa almost every day. Beautiful? 
But yes. (It is of the miss, and not of the 
papa, that I speak.) Also, of very, very 
nice appearance. Do not mistake. I liave 
no thought of alliance* I must not marry 
yet, and when I marry it must be for the 
business ; and then I do not look at beauty 
but at capital for the business and knowledge 
of book-keeping. But all the same, I have 
eyes, I have a heart. She is truly adorable, 
this English miss. 

What she think, I cannot say. Perhaps I 
am to her no more than a waiter. If so, 
why does she make papa choose always one 
of my tables for the lunch ? Why does she 
ask me what I think of the Balkan crisis ? 
Why does she laugh whenever I speak ? 
(True, monsieur her father also laugh very 

much.) I am young. 






nice ap- 
pearance, and the 
hairs wave of them- 

Naturally , I say 
nothing. It is a 
secret of my heart, 
a poem, a romance^ 
But when this lady 
and her papa lunch, 
then I wait on them 
first and most^ and 
the customers at my 
other tables must 
have a little 
patience. No doubt 
the signor remark 
it, for if he wish to 
humiliate me and 
to wound my feel- 
ing he take care 
always that the 
young lady shall see 
and hear, He hates 
me ? No doubt. 
But I hate him 
much more f a thou- 
sand times more. Even if he makes me to 
weep, he change not my fixed determination. 
" To-day/' I say always, " the victory b to 
you. But one future day I shall give you 
some beans in the neck." 




Quite suddenly my uncle in Paris die. He 
die at the post of duty, like a soldier, A client 
of the one franc fifty say the soup not good, 
and send for my uncle, " Not good ? " my 
uncle say. "Attention* We shall see- Bring 
me of it." He eat a whole portion. Then 
he go out and drink a great deal fine cham- 
pagne to correct. No use. Paf ! All over* 

and that head-waiter that I wish for my part- 
ners. They are both of the best, and have 
saved money not badly ; and the head- waiter 
has been some years in New York and knows 
ropes. Also, they wish very much to come 
with me. So we three talk it over and find 
the way out. 
What we arrange is this : I sell the business, 


And he leave everything to me, Gustave, his 

I tel! the signor nothing of this. All I say 
is that I leave him ? and he pretend to rejoice. 
AlsOj he ask if perhaps I go to be head-waiter 
at the Ritz. He treat me with contempt, and 
still I say nothing. 

Now for some months I put the signoT from 
my head. The affairs are the affairs. Busi- 
ness first, I go to Paris, but not to remain 
there. I have my plans all made. First I 
am to sell the restaurant business of my uncle. 
Then I find one partner, or perhaps two, 
suitable for my purpose. Then I am to go 
out to New York to start a very smart high- 
price French restaurant. 

There arrives a little trouble in selling the 
business of my uncle. It is a good business 
and I can get a good price, but the purchaser 
nuke a condition — be will buy only if the chef 
and the head-waiter of my uncle remain and 
work for him. Now it is precisely that chef 

leaving the chef and head-waiter, and then in 
a little while the chef and head-waiter so 
behave that the new proprietor ask them to 
go. Then they go — and join me. It is sur- 
prising how easily three men can get over a 
difficulty if they have of the good will and 

At last the affairs terminate themselves. I 
come back to London for one weekj before my 
partners and I sail for New York, And now 
I have a little time for the Restaurant Mer- 
veilleuse. " Make ready, signor," I say to me* 
" Once you ill-treat a poor young French- 
Swiss. Now he become somebody, and you 
get some beans," 

In a few months I was much changed, I 
wear now the moustache and imperial, and 
the hairs part them otherwise. Because I cat 
very much good food, I fill me out* I have 
the best clothes of the first-class English 
tailor , much better than the signor's, and the 
tall bet,«rfAhfi-in9Sl Wfflfit-g J have the mien 




more dignified — but far more, I no longer 
speak with the small and supplicating voice 
of the little waiter; I speak like a man whose 
uncle has left him everything, very bold and 
sharp. No one would recognize me. Almost 
I would not recognize myself. 

Behold, the commencement. I enter the 
restaurant like a first-class swell of Bond 
Street. One waiter takes my hat and gloves, 
all new and beautiful. Another pulls back the 
chair for me. I know them both, but they 
do not know me. The proprietor promenades 
slowly down the salon with the frock-coat 
buttoned over his large middle. He incline 
the shoulder very respectful, and ask if I 
receive proper attention. T .say more quick- 
ness of the service is required, and he go to 
sae for it- So aho he do not recognize me. 
It is good* It goes well* It give me a pleasant 
warmth in the interior to see this proud and 
insolent man run 
about to serve 

I have com- 
manded very 
simply of the 
roast meat with 
a bottle of Cham- 
bertin, and after- 
wards a savoury 
omelette. When 
the meat arrive, 
I notice some- 
thing. It is very 
slight, but I have 
the nose fine. At 
once I raise my 
plate with my 
hands and begin 
to smell at it 
loudly, so that 
people at other 
tables shall pay 
attention. Then 
I put down the 
plate and say to 
the waiter : — 

" Send me the 
proprietor, or 
manager, or 
whatever he call 

The sign or have 
noticed that there 
is trouble, and come all at once 
there is nothing wrong. 

" Nothing wrong ? " I say 

He hope 

of my plate with one finger. 
u h not fit for human food/' 

I tap the edge 
M This/' I say, 

I am quiet and of a calm altogether aristo- 
cratic, but I make my voice to carry. 

He say that as far as he can see it is quite 

" As far as you can see — perhaps. It is 
not with the eyes that one smells. It may 
have been quite good six weeks ago. I come 
here to eat lunch — not to commit the suicide. 1 ' 
He thinks I am a French gentleman and 
begin to speak French. It is that he does not 
wish other clients to understand. So I stop 
him and say he must speak English, and that 
I do not understand French. 

Then he sa>% whatever the reason f if I do 
not like it he change it at once. What would 
I prefer ? The poulet is very good that day. 
So I eat a chicken's bosom with no extra 
price . All through the luncheon he watch me 
very nervous lest I smell at something else. 
But I am content to keep him on some tenter- 

hooks. The 
omelette aux fines 
herbes is excel- 
lent, and the 
Chambert i n 
agrees well with 
me. When I go 
out, he himself 
opens the door 
for me. And some 
months back he 
call me, one day, 
forty - three d i f- 
ferent names of 
insult. It goes 
well for the com- 
mencement. For 
the evening I 
have yet some- 
thing for him — 
something in a 
little box. 

I do not wish 
to give away the 
trade-secretj but 
when you go to 
the hotel or 
restaurant it is 
good to raise 
some canes, as 
you say in your 
argot > in the first 
five minutes. If 
in those minutes 
you let some little error pass, then they know 
you are easy and they can do as they please, 
They do you in the eyes. But if you begin 
to complain almost as soon as you take your 
hat off, then they have more care of you, 




That night, because I had complained at 
luncheon , I was well served, I think they 
cook something specially for me. But is 
that to save my enemy, the signor ? No ! 

I play with htm a little. When he come to 
ask me if I find everything satisfactory, I 
praise the dinner, I speak of the weather, 
I am all smiles and politeness. And then I 
raise my voice a little. 

grumbling. And then I drop my serviette. 
I stoop to pick it up, and under the cover 
of it I open the box I have brought with me, 
and shake out the cockroaches. There are 
twenty of them. They are young and 
agile. They run all ways. At first they are 
not seen. Then I say to the lady at the 
next table to mine : " Excuse me, madam, 
but some beetle goes to climb over" your shoe/ 1 

& ***+**-,*' 


11 I understand/* I say, u that you are 
much troubled with the cockroaches and 
other vermins in your kitchens here. Now, 
I have heard of a remedy " 

He give me no time to finish. His eyes 
swell out as if they shall go pop. His hands 
open and shut. He nearly choke with rage. 
If I will tell him who told me that abominable 
lie. he will take proceedings at once, It is 
most injurious. His kitchens are models of 
cleanliness. There is not one beetle or other 
insect in the place, and never has been. 

I shrug my shoulders. I cannot remember 
just who told me, I had heard it from two 
or three people, I was glad to hear from 
him that it was not true, He go away still 

She see it and jump up with a scream. 
Then she see two of the others. She say 
the whole place is swarming with the filthy 
things, and she will not stop — no. Others 
also find beetles, and make complaints. 
The signor run about distracted and apolo- 
gizing, His face is wet and his shirt-front 
crumpled. He is full of fear and agony. 
And I smoke the ninepenny cigar calm and 
unperturbed. Who now has the victory ? 

But because I have still one little thing to 
do, I rise from my place. It needs the 
quickness, but the confusion all around of 
those who engage with some cockroaches 
give me the opportunity I do something 

with ^pkato wter ^ pIaced 



before a purple-face gentleman — very good 
customer, as I remember well, but of short 
temper. He have left his place one moment 
to see why so much disturbance, Well, 
when he returns and help himself to the 
mulligatawny he find in it one small dead 
mouse ! And I think he say some things to 
the signor > Very hot stuff ! 

Then 1 take the shining hat and the yellow 
gloves , give a very large tip to the waiter 
(since I pity one who has the signor for his 
master), and walk out. As I promenade 
down the salon, I see myself reflected in 
the mirrors. I have the air joyful and 

laugh. Perhaps she recognize me. Perhaps 
— but not matter. When I raise me the 
hat she take no notice, but what does that 
prove ? Ail simply, that woman is coquette. 

Then behind me come one loud roar. The 
monsieur of the purple face has found the 
little dead mouse. He demand to speak 
with the signor. 

Go to htm, signor. You are not afraid. 
You trample on the poor little French-Swiss 
waiter and make him much misery. You 
call him forty-three bad names, all different. 
Now you go and talk with the monsieur of 
the purple face. I think he also call you 


triumphant ; I look at the signor, and 
he seem like a sorrowful balloon that lose 
much gas. 

And as I draw near the door, there enteT 
the English miss and her father* It is what 
I should have wished. She has seen me 
in the day of my misery, now she see me 
in the moment of veritable glory. It is 
clear that she have some trouble not to 

some things. This day I lose you about 
thirty customers- You spend all the time 
to explain and to apologize* Where is your 
swank now ? Have you much appetite for 
the spaghetti this evening ? And that 
little Gu stave } whom you despised, he do it 
all of himself- And he laugh. 

Bah ! I give you some beans in the neck, 
What ? 

by Google 

Original from 





>• ^* 

OOKING back, I think the 
luckiest event of my life was 
being born a Grossmith. For 
this particular reason. The 
achievements and success of 
my father and my uncle, 
Weedon, in the profession we 
all so much loved, were such that both my 
brother Lawrence and I felt the spur of their 
example and desired nothing so much as to 
merit their praise and approval. I have 
always felt very proud of the fact that my 
father was, I believe, the only man who ever 
stepped straight on to the stage to play the 
title-r<5k as he did in " The Sorcerer." In the 
Gilbert and Sullivan operas, from start to 
finish, he began at the top and ended there. 

Certainly he did all he possibly could 
to help and encourage me in those days when 
I had everything to learn and nervously 
faced audiences for the first time. And it is 
with peculiar satisfaction that I feel I was 
able to realize some of his hopes. 

I remember twenty years ago receiving the 
following letter % — 

28, Dorset Square, S.W. 
May 11/A, '95. 
1.30 a.m. 
Dear Old Boy^— 

Many happy returns of the day. You are 
now your awn master, and it is absolutely in 
your power to continue to return (as you always 
have done) the natural love which has been so 
freely and so willingly bestowed upon you by an 
incomparable mother and by an admiring and 
affectionate father. G. G. Senior. 

And this cherished parental blessing on my 
twenty-first birthday was followed by a letter 
from an affectionate uncle in which he said : 
" You are now a man and responsible for 
your debts. My congratulations." I think 
I appreciated the splendid dressing-case which 
accompanied the letter a little more than this 
practical hint. 

Whether, by the way, it is the diminutive 
stature of my uncle Weedon, or his perennial 
youth, I cannot say, but our relationship seems 
to be sometimes misunderstood. I heard Sir 
Herbert Tree telling a story not long ago, 
apropos of the fact that while on poster an- 
nouncements his full name and title is given, 
on the programmes he figures as plain " Her- 
bert Tree," to the effect that one admirer com- 
plimented him on his " son's " brilliant acting 
as Hamlet. It is but another illustration of 
the confusion which exists in some people's 
minds regarding actors, for I myself have 
been complimented on the cleverness of my 
" nephew " Weedon. 

I had a third theatrical godfather — Mr. 
George Edwardes — who kept the lamp of 
musical comedy, which he founded, burning 
brightly for so many years, and whose death 
was such a sad blow to us all. I think one of 
the most pleasing traits in " the Guv'nor's " 
character was that he was just as eager to 
" buck " up an obscure junior as the foremost 
of his " stars." I well remember the pains he 
took to describe the first part he ever gave to 

" It'll give you a wonderful chance," he 




" What sort of a part is it, then, Mr. 
Edwardes ? " I asked. 

" Oh, he's a young man just down from 
Oxford, who has inherited from his father a 
million and a half of money. He has a yacht 
at Southampton, a palatial town house, a 
fine place in the country, a ch&teau in France, 
and everything else that mortal man can 
wish for. He goes through the South African 
War and rushes back to go to Monte Carlo, 
after which he returns to town for the season 
and then goes to Scotland for the shooting. 
He's engaged to a girl in India, but, at the 
same time, he's got himself mixed up with 
another one in London. He has a lot of 
trouble over this, and eventually he goes off 
on a sunken treasure expedition. When he 
comes back " 

" But excuse me one moment, Mr. 
Edwardes/ 7 I here interrupted. " Does he 
do all this in the play ? " 

" Well, not exactly," he replied, dubiously. 
" To tell you the truth, I haven't read the 
play properly yet, but I think he only comes 
on at the end of the first act ! " 

At rehearsals our chief was certainly some- 
what of a martinet. And rightly so. The 
interests of everything and everybody were 
momentarily sacrificed while perfection, as 
he understood it, was attained. 

If a luckless actor happened to displease 
Mr. Edwardes during the final stage of a 
rehearsal it sometimes went hard with him. 
" Take it off ! Take it off ! " I remember 
him calling angrily from the stalls, as he 
watched the exaggerated antics of a comedian 
who had been called from the provinces to 
fill a place in the Gaiety bill. "What, 
sir — this wig?" asked the recruit, point- 
ing to a bright-red shock-head of hair with 
which he had adorned himself. " No, not 
the wig, but the man inside it," was the 

Of Gaiety stories, however, in which €t the 
Guv'nor " figured, I think the following is 
one of the best. We were called suddenly for 
rehearsal one day. No one knew why, for 
the piece had been running for months. Said 
one of the Gaiety lads : "I suppose George 
is going to be in front to-night." He was 
rebuked by the stage manager for speaking so 
disrespectfully of Mr. Edwardes. " Who's 
talking about Mr. Edwardes ? " was the 
retort. " I meant the King." 

It was really Sir W. S. Gilbert, however, 
who gave me my first chance, at the age of 
eighteen. When I was about to go up to 
Sandhurst, for my paf ents had destined me for 
the Army, my father set to music a piece 

written by Gilbert, entitled, " Haste to the 
Wedding," and the famous librettist, knowing 
the direction in which my fancy had turned, 
said to my father, " How would you like your 
boy to make his start with us ? " And I was 
accordingly sent for. The part offered, that of 
Cousin Foodie, was wily a small one, and the 
salary a modest guinea a week. " You are 
now able to earn your own living ; hence- 
forward, earn it," said my father, with an 
effort of stern seriousness. Visions of the 
success of a Toole or an Irving floated through 
my mind, but I came down to earth with a 
bump, when " Haste to the Wedding " was 
taken off after a few weeks, and for two or 
three years I haunted every agent's office in 
London, getting a few parts of two or three 
lines, and for a short period understudying 
Charles Hawtrey at the Comedy. 

Then I started to play Lord Percy Pimple- 
ton in " Morocco Bound," the first play ever 
described as a musical comedy. Instead of 
limiting Lord Percy to the prescribed two or 
three lines, I determined off my own bat to 
give the nobleman a longer innings, and so 
one night I made an experiment in what one 
might call " gagging," or, as a dude, telling 
silly, pointless stories which might get some 

The effort, although probably ridiculous, 
was a success, and from that moment I rushed 
on the stage at every conceivable opportunity, 
and spoke forth impromptu gags, so that the 
small part gradually became one of the longest. 
And that is how I began to play the silly-ass 
parts with which I have since been so fre- 
quently associated. 

In one sense these parts have been a great 
disappointment to me. For although I am 
not one of those individuals who spell Art 
with a big A, having always believed in the 
principle that it is the actor's business to take 
anything he can get, I have at times got so 
tired of playing " dude " parts that I have 
endeavoured to break away. I tried what I 
could do as Viscount Stornaway in " The 
Degenerates," with Mrs. Langtry, at the 
Haymarket ; and as Sir Roland Wright in 
" A Message from Mars." But I cannot say 
that I was satisfied. I am sure the audiences 
were not. So I drifted back to the Gaiety, 
where " The Toreador," " The Orchid," " The 
Spring Chicken," " The Girls of Gottenburg," 
" Our Miss Gibbs," and other of Mr. Edwardes, 
productions were launched on their way and 
in which the incomparable Teddy Payne 
rollicked through. What a splendid fellow 
he was to work with ! The best of comrades 
— a man with a heart, 





Fhoto. EUiM <C Hater #, 


I like to think of that story of a famous 
first night at the Gaiety , years before 1 troubled 
the public with my doings, which tells how two 
little enthusiastic gallery ites, a hoy and a girl, 
fought for seats. As the curtain dropped on 
one of the final tableaux, to cheers and ap- 
plause, the following dialogue took place 

Vot tt.-IB. 

between I he two. u I say, 
Kitty/ ? remarked the boy, " I 
wonder if you cr I will ever have 
the luck to get on the stage ? "' 
( I dont know j Teddy/' was 
the little lady's reply, as she 
joined in the well-earned ap- 
plause. The one was Edmund 
Payne, the other Kitty Loftus. 
The incident, I believe, 
actually happened, although 
Teddy was rather a\erse to 
talking about himself. He 
was also exceedingly sensitive 
regarding the lisp., which lent 
additional humour to his work 
on the stage. Teddy w&uld 
not admit that he always 
talked with a lisp, which 
he regarded as 
peculiar to his 
woik alone. 

** People say I 

always speak 

with a lithp," he 

remarked to me 

one day,, with an 

injured air. M I 

do not speak 

with a lithp- I 

say ' thertainly/ 


I was intensely 

amused one 

night when 

Teddy and I 

played our parts 

in I'Peggy" 

wearing beards 

in imitation 

of Mr, Arthur 

Liuurchier. who grew one for his part of 

Henry VII L at His Majesty's, To listen to 

Teddy spluttering through a beard was so 

exceedingly funny that at times I could 

scarcely speak my lines^ while the house 


I think one of the s or prises of my life was 
when Teddy invited me to the Athenaeum 
Club. It happened in this wise. 

I had asked Teddy to have a drink with me 
at a hostelry adjacent to the Gaiety, but Teddy 
said instead, " Come along with me, old boy, 
and have a drink at the Athena:uim IJ 

I fairly gasped. Could it be possible that 
Teddy was a member of the dignified 
Athenaeum ? I said to him, " Do you mean 
the club, T4M$fcth\ fftXbi course I do/ 1 he 






We went ulong t but I was 

still doubtful about it, and 

asked him, " Are you sure you 

can take me into the Athe- 

Teddy ? ,5 (< Of course 

an/ 4 he said. 

Vhen we got to the club the 
stery was explained, ln- 
Eid of going in at the front 
jr Teddy went down the 
ps to the servants' quarters. 
Tie wine steward here is an 
[jal of mine; 1 he said, 
nd will give us a good 

reference to Mrs. Langtry 
* The Degenerates TS re- 
me that it was while 
ring with her company in 
America that I 
acted under the 
greatest difficul- 
ties I have ever 
experienced. It 
also illustrates 
the characteristic 
enterprise of that 
remarkably clever 
woman, and her 
capacity for doing 
tilings w h i c: h 
would make other 
managers s t aji d 





At that time 
the South African 
War w r as in pro- 
gress, and just as 
last year, when 1 
was in the States, 
I found everybody 
pro-Ally, C y r i I 
M q ude, Forbes- 
Robertson, and 
Granville Barker 
playing to packed 
and enthusiastic 
houses, and every 
uniD of entertain- 
ment being given 
for the relief oi 
Belgium, so in 
those days every- 
body seemed to 
he p r o - B o e r. 
When we reached 
Detroit City 3 Mrs, 
L a n g t r > an- 
nuu need that she 



would give a performance in aid of 
the American soldiers in the Philip- 
pines and our own in South Africa. 

Now j in the United States all 
plays are under the jurisdiction of 
the local mayors, and the Mayor 
of Detroit, at that time a stiff- 
necked Irishman^ with peculiar 
views on the war and the moral 
effect of plays , swore that he would 
clap the whole company in prison 
if we dared to produce the play, to 
which he had taken a great objection, 

At first Mrs* 
Langtry was 
in despair 3 but 
suddenly a 
bright idea 
occurred to 
her. Adjoining 
Detroit C i t y 
there was a 
little strip of 
British terri- 
tory. It pos- 
sensed no 
theatre^ but 
only a small 
hall in which 
dramatic per- 
f 01 ma noes had 
been hitherto 
u n heard of* 
There was 
neither pro- 
scenium nor 
rooms, but 
Mrs, Langtry 
had it adver- 
tised far and 
wide that the 




Photo. *W«taTn d Ba+Md. 


play would lake place after all. That nij;ht, 
of course j the little hall was packed to over- 
flowing, for the Detroit people flocked to see 
the performance, and lustily cheered the 
pluck v nrumagere^fpQpn 

1 if*#rt.i drcss b a Iiule 



outhouse, a couple of small cellars being util- 
ized by the ladies. The outhouse was large 
enough to hold one man comfortably, so that 
when six of us were in, it became a matter of 
difficulty to move ; and the worst of it was 
that we were all in a hurry. 

Then we discovered that we had no looking- 
glass. To " make-up " without the aid of a 
mirror is a physical impossibility, so someone 
went to look for one, and returned with a small 
bit of a broken mirror, before which we all 
tried to " make-up " at the same time. Some- 
how or other we managed to do so, though I 
felt every moment I was on the stage that some 
of my garments were coming off, a most un- 
comfortable sensation which I have no wish 
to experience again. 

May 1 be allowed to digress for a moment 
to remark that I think the artiste, either on 
the legitimate stage or in musical comedy, 
should be cosmopolitan in his education, just 
like the singers in grand opera ? One of the 
greatest Hamlets England ever saw was 
Fechter, a Frenchman. Then the Dutchman, 
Devries, at the Hay market, some years ago, 
was wonderful. He played as many as seven 
parts in a night — astonishingly versatile — 
and he learned to speak English perfectly. 
One gets fresh ideas in travelling. It is 
necessary always to freshen up one's work if 
one is a comedian. I make a point, for 
instance, of playing for six months in America 
every three years or so. 

I must confess, however, that when I 
first played in Paris, in a revue at the Folies 
Berg^res in 1910, I was frightened — I never 
felt so scared — on the first night. It is an 
awful ordeal to play in another language. 
When I am on at home and anything slips — 
as happens to the best and worst of us at 
times — I can casually remark, " Well, as I 
was saying." You can't do that in French; 
it is not a language you can hum and haw in. 
I tried to give my masher drawl in the idiom, 
but, bless you, it cannot be done. 

It seems to be a popular idea that we 
imported revue from Paris and America during 
the last few years, but, as a matter of fact, 
we ourselves were the originators. Several 
years ago a very admirable foim of this 
entertainment, " Under the Clock;' was 
done at the Court Theatre by Mr. Charles 
Brookfield and Mr. Seymour Hicks. It 
attracted a good deal of attention at' the 
time, but nobody followed it up. Then I 
bo: rowed the idea and suggested to Mr. 
George Edwardes to cut an hour out of 
" The Toreador," then being done at the 
Gaiety, and to produce a revue of that 

theatre's old pieces under the title of " The 
Linkman ; or, Gaiety Memories." It was 
an instant success, and it gave me an amazing 
object-lesson of the value of modernity and 
up-to-dateness in the presentation cf the 
lighter form of stage enteitainments. In 
" The Linkman " all the chief artistes who had 
been associated with the Gaiety appealed in 
the persons of their successors. 

" The Linkman " was so great a success 
that Mr. Edwardes, who was also director of 
the Empire, saw what an attract icn the 
review would be for that house, and kindly 
recommended me as the reviewer. The 
immediate result was the production of 
" Rogues and Vagabonds " ; followed in 
due course bv " Oh, Indeed," " Come 
Inside," " Hullo ! London," and " By 
George," the forerunner of the hundred and 
one revues running to-day. These early 
Empire revues were so successful that I 
remember the manager saying to me gloomily 
one day, " We must change the programme." 
" Good heavens ! What's the matter ? " 
I asked, apprehensively. " It's too good. 
Nobody goes to the bars." 

To my mind, however, we have not yet 
reached the real revue. I lock forward 
to the day when we shall have in theatres 
real revues, consisting absolutely of travesties 
of topical events — social, political, and inter- 
national matters — and not merely confined 
to imitations of rag-time scenes. I am per- 
fectly certain that popular and prominent 
people, whom all the public know and like, 
whether it be a great lady, such as Lady 
Randolph Churchill, or a great sportsman like 
Lord Lonsdale, would not in the least mind 
being chaffed or even caricatured in, of course, 
a good-natured way. Mr. Lloyd George 
and his taxes have done turn enough. 

This, of course, is only my view. Whether 
it will ever materialize or not, time alone will 

With regard to musical comedy, I predict 
that, as in ihe case of " The Only Girl," 
recently produced at" the Apollo, and " To- 
Night's the Night," at the Gaiety, it is really 
going to develop into comedy — well-con- 
structed comedy — with appropriate music 
falling into its natural place. We shall be 
spared the sudden introduction of some such 
character as " Idaho Daisy," whose lover is 
crazy, in order to drag into the piece, irre- 
spective of nothing, an importation from 

I hold the view, however, that there is 
alwavs an element of luck in every theatrical 

^ifflYftSI^PtofOflltftfl* ' a difficult 



tiling to make sure of pleasing the theatrical 
audience, but on the whole I am inclined to 
think that it is harder to do so to-day than it 
was ten years ago. 

When I first became associated with revues 
at the Empire and afterwards at the Alhambra^ 
I remember that one of my greatest troubles 



Phrta. Ilitntftttioni Burmn. 

was to deal with the letters with which I was 
inundated from people desiring 4< turns ,'' 
and ninety-five per cent* of them seemed to 
be from acrobats. 1 never knew there were 
so many acrobats in the world. There is, 
however, much that is interesting and 
humorous, though at times sad, in the appli- 
cations of those wanting a " shop." 

Two years ago a man 
wrote to me asking me to 
give him an engagement. 
He went on by saying, *' I 
must apologize for troubling 
vou, but I have only had 
two engagements during 
the last twelve months — 
one was in the crowd at 
t|ie Coronation performance 
of ' Julius Caesar/ and the 
other at the Theatrical 
Garden Party at the 
Botanical Gardens- Neither 
carried any important 

The number of people, 
however j who come to me 
expecting to be put 
straight into a part — people 
who are frequently totally 
unfitted for the work — is 
The majority of them are absolutely unused 
to singing in a big place like the Guietv, and 
many of them cannot sing at all ! I remember 
one pathetic figure who turned up at a voice 
trial He was a man of over fifty, draped in 
a funereal - looking black cape, and he also 
wore whiskriEkig Com mi v to the rules, he 
insisted MV Iferfte'^ -Wffl' M P nipaniment . 



There were dozens of others waiting to have 
their voices tried, but he did not show any 
signs of hurrying. Slowly fixing his music 
on the piano, he proceeded to arrange the 
folds of his cape. After that he played, very 
solemnly, six chords, at intervals of about 
half a minute, and then quavered out a thin, 
falsetto note. And that was as far as he got, 
poor old chap ! The examiner hurried him 
off, and got on with his work. How the man 
ever came to think he would do for the Gaiety 
will always be a mystery to me. 

A short while ago a very amusing thing 
happened in this connection. The aspirant 
this time was a lady of very good family, 
with a good income also, and a great desire 
to shine on the stage. She was quite un- 
daunted by the fact that she had had no 
training whatever. Said she : — 

" Of course, anything will do to begin with ! 
I should not mind quite a small part at 
first ! " 

This, mark you, before I had as much as 
hinted that there was any chance for her. 

" And, of course, I know it's hard work, 
but I should not mind that. I might not 
be able to come every Saturday and Monday, 
as I often go down to my place in the country 
for week-ends, and, naturally, one cannot 
drop all one's social obligations ! " 

As soon as I could get in a word I said that 
the best thing would be for her to see the 
manager, who would have her voice tried, 
and give her a job in the chorus, perhaps. 
She gasped. 

" Oh, but I could never go on at the Gaiety ! 
It would never do ! My people would never 
speak to me again, you know ! It would be 
such a come down ! I thought you might 
possibly give me an introduction to Sir 
George Alexander ! " 

When I could breathe again I pointed out 
that if I sent her to Sir George, he would 
probably imagine that I did so because she 
was not good enough for the Gaiety. 

She would probably have been surprised 
to learn that we generally have a list of over 
a hundred men and women, who have passed 
all the necessary tests, waiting to fill any 
vacancies that occur. 

There are some people who seem to think 
that all that matters in musical comedy is a 
voice. This, however, is not so. To put it 
quite bluntly, success in musical comedy lies 

in being able to " hawk " your personality 
to the best advantage. U is, therefore, 
necessary to possess at least one, and as many- 
more as possible, of those qualities which go to 
make up a personality — humour, grace, charm, 
a distinctive manner, personal magnetism, a 
good figure, and so forth. These are what 

Some years ago I was at a well-known sea- 
side place, and one day found myself listening 
to a pierrot troupe. Among them was a man 
who sang one of the popular comic songs of the 
time. Thousands of people were singing it, 
whistling it, and listening to it all over the 
country, and one might have thought 
that nothing new could have been done 
with it. 

But when this man came on and sang it 
he put so much originality, or personality, 
into it, that the song lost its hackneyed flavour 
and became fresh again. 

I said to myself, " Here is a comedian ! " 
And for years he has borne out the correctness 
of my judgment on that occasion, for he was 
no less a person than Mr. W. H. Berry. 

My pet aversion is the stage aspirant with 
the so-called artistic temperament. When I 
meet such a person, I am always tempted to 
tell them of the wittiest definition of artistic 
temperament I ever saw. It is that of a 
racing man in a novel by Duncan Schwann. 
" You may take it from me," this sporting 
character says in effect, " the Artistic Tem- 
perament is a bad horse to back. It is by 
Swelled Head out of Tommy Rot, and it's 
no starter." 

If an actor should put himself for a stray 
quarter of an hour on rather a high perch, 
some obliging person inevitably turns up to 
drag him off it. u 'Ullo, George, how's busi- 
ness ? " was the salute given to me by a nigger 
troupe in a boat at Henley. 

At Goring Regatta, again, a friend of mine 
happened to overhear this little dialogue : — 

First elderly gentleman, nodding his head 
ominously in my direction : " There's George 
Grossmith." Second elderly gentleman, ap- 
parently much astonished, after taking stock 
of me very carefully for a few seconds : €l Well, 
well, you do surprise me ! He's quite a gen- 
tlemanly-looking young fellow, considering 
what he is ! " 

Such little incidents, however, all add to the 
gaiety of one's profession. 

by Google 

Original from 





Illustrated by G. Dutriac. 

USHED from without, the 
door of the mayor's office 
swung back to the w r all. A 
man's head appeared in the 

" There they are, Monsieur 
Tailleux ! They are coming 
down the hill ! " 

Then the speaker vanished ; his wooden 
shoes clattered along the street at a pace 
which suggested flight. 

M. Tailleux, the mayor of Thi£lou-sur-Ru, 
braced himself to face the danger. He 
turned cold, he shivered. With fear ? No — 
the man was brave — but with anxiety in 
the presence of an unknown danger. He 
knew the Huns' reputation for brutality. 
He had actually witnessed that brutality, 
and, although he had been but a child at the 
time, the cruel recollection dwelt, ever fresh, 
in his memory. In front of a wall, in the 
courtyard of the farmhouse which he still 
occupied, he saw the drunken Bavarians 
taking aim at his old grandfather. In his 
ear resounded the report of the murderous 
volley ; he recalled the night-burial, and the 
silently weeping women standing around the 

The bravest of men could not think of that 
terrible time without a shudder. And now — 
to return to the present — two days ago, 
Consteau, an old soldier, had died suddenly 
upon hearing of the near approach of the 

M. Tailleux had barely time to put on his 
official scarf before he heard the tramp of 
iron heels outside. Almost immediately 
a German patrol entered, preceded by a 
clean-shaven young officer with prominent 

" The mayor ? " 

M. Tailleux stood up. 

41 / am the mayor/' he replied. 

The travel-stained soldier wiped his face. 

" I am very thirsty," he said. 44 Order 
me some wine." 

" With pleasure. Would 
fresh your men also ? " 



" Thanks. I will let them drink later on." 

When the officer had quenched his thirst 
his tone became milder. Taking a paper 
from his pocket, he read : — 

" Thielou-sur-RG — three hundred and 
forty-nine inhabitants " 

" Since the day before yesterday, three 
hundred and forty-eight," interrupted the 
mayor, who remained outwardly calm, in 
spite of the enemy's irritating arrogance. 
" A former inhabitant is just about to be 
carried to his grave." 

" Very well ; we will say three hundred 
and forty-eight — agricultural labourers and 
their masters. Rich country. To-morrow 
his Excellency General von Restlow, in 
command of the army corps, will arrive here. 
I have orders to procure him a lodging at 
White House Farm. That is yours, I think ? 
If he is well treated he will act with humanity. 
I shall- requisition only fifteen cows, although, 
I believe, you own thirty-two. My informa- 
tion is precise." 

" They have forgotten the Judge," said 
M. Tailleux. " Caution is necessary when 
entering the stable. He is dangerous, even 
with us. We have had to put a ring in his 

" I find nothing about that in my notes. 
Who or what is the Judge ? " 

" The bull. We gave him the name in 
fun, because he is dressed all in black, like*a 

" Always disrespectful, these French ! " 
said the officer, contemptuously. " After 
the conquest we will keep them in order." 

The mayor was silent. 

" I should warn you," resumed the Prussian, 
" that in your official capacity you are for the 
present responsible for the good behaviour 
of the commune. At the first hint of a threat 
against myself or any of my men, you will 
be shot." 

" I know it," said the mayor ; " it was the 
same in 1870." 

The officer rapped out an order, turned on 
his heel, and departed, followed by his men. 

" NSW/ERGftWg&F flfflf FTaiHeux, " that has 





I can well afford to lodge his 

passed off better than I hoped. It is because 
he is secretly afraid that this fine fellow plays 
the bully. Thanks to that, he will take only 
fifteen cows 
general* I shall gain by it yet 

He was just sitting down again when be 
heard the tolling of a bell. Kl Already ? " 
he said to himself. li I had forgotten, I 
am sorry ; they will have to bury poor 
Consfeau without me/' 

Suddenly the Germans returned, surging 
into the office with threatening cries. The 
mayor, calm in front of their levelled guns, 
made signs that he wished to speak. He 
guessed the cause of the commotion, The 
Germans had mistaken the funeral-knell for 
an alarm-bell. The officer placed the barrel 
of his revolver against the Frenchman's 

> T < 

" It is a trap ! '' he roared. * f You have 
had the cull to arms sounded/' 

He gave an order. Soldiers seized the 
mayor, who resisted as well as he could with 
his fists. There was a brief struggle, then a 
terrible blow. M. Tailleux fell heavily. 
From his car a moving thread of blood crept 
in a red rivulet over the floor. 

Excited by this murder, the Prussians 
rushed out of doors, gesticulating wildly. 
They fired upon the walls of the church , 
the steeple, and the village street. Their 
shouts rent the air, and in terror of this 
horde of ruffians the inhabitants hastened 
to slam their doors and barricade their 

But one woman passed along, heedless of 
threats andl-''ClNn was Mme. Tailleux 

-" Wf^WOl*Ml€ttlGyW «i"«i. She 



had heard the sound of shots, and hurried at 
once to the mayor's office. 

" My husband ! " she ejaculated. " If these 
brigands have done anything to him ! " 
., Oppressed by a presentiment, she began 
,f, to run. At the office the frightful reality 
£ confronted her. 

*". Her husband lay with one leg doubled up 

I under him. He seemed asleep, his eyes were 

* half-closed ; the red rivulet had swelled 

into a pool. 

The woman flung herself down upon the 

- body, clasped it in her arms, spoke to it in 

soft, caressing tones. 

" My husband ! You do not answer. Can 
f you hear me no longer, my husband ? " 

* She rained tears and kisses on the chilling 
cheeks. At last she seemed to understand 
what had happened. She lay there for hours, 
until nightfall. Then she rose, and bathed 
the dear, cold face and the wound through 
which life had fled. Dumbfounded, stupefied 
rather than sorrowful, she wept no more. A 
fierce flame had dried her eyes, bright now with 
the ardent desire to avenge the cowardly 
murder of her husband. 

. In a room on the ground floor of the farm 
the woman watched by her husband's body. 
She gazed earnestly at the dead face. Before 
she must part with them for ever, she would 
gather from the contemplation of those 
beloved features strength for the accomplish- 
ment of her revenge. 

The wretches ! Dearly should they pay 
for the murder of her man ! With her eyes 
upon the tall clock, she awaited impatiently 
the arrival of the German officers. The 
general was to lunch at the farm. The servants 
had fled ; upon her, therefore, devolved the 
preparation of the meal. Her bitter reflec- 
tions during the long, sleepless night had 
brought her no inspiration. Should she 
poison these men ? But, like a true French- 
- woman, she recoiled from the idea of killing 
in the dark. She wanted to see the brigands 
*,die. She 'desired for them a torture suffi- 
ciently prolonged for her to gloat over it. 
£ But what should it be ? 
3 The gun ? In that way she alone could , 
\ not kill six or seven men. Moreover, it was 
\t too easy a death. Should she burn them in 
X- ^he barn ? That was impossible. Fearing 

• ~ ambushes, the general had ordered that his 
\\ table should be laid in the courtyard, where, as 
' ** he thought, he would be in no peril of sur- 

* prise. Besides, she lacked the courage to 
^/bujmdown her own farm. 
'. " But I shall think of some w&y," she said 

Vol. ||.-20 

to herself. " Not one of these bandits shall 
leave this place alive." 

A door opened behind her — an officer stood 
on the threshold. A thrill passed through him 
at the sight of this lonely woman keeping 
watch over her dead. He saluted as he 
said : — 

" His Excellency the General has arrived." 

" Very good/' replied the woman, without 
deigning to turn her head. " I am coming." 

She pressed her lips upon the dead man's 
forehead in a long, long kiss ; then, tearless, 
and with the look of a person walking in her 
sleep, she went to the kitchen and busied 
herself in serving up the repast. 

In the centre of the sun-scorched courtyard, 
General von Restlow and his staff were finish- 
ing their lunch. The widow was assisted in 
her duties by three orderlies. From her 
kitchen she kept a sharp eye on the men who, 
to her vision, were stained with her husbands 
blood. The hours were quickly passing ; was 
she, after all-, to be baulked of her revenge? 

Excited by drink, the Germans shouted 
toasts to their victory and their anticipated 
triumphal march upon Paris. 

A harsh bellowing came from the stable. 
It began with a blowing sound, which swelled 
out until it resembled that of a foghorn, then 
died away on a low note. Three times it rose 
and fell. Hearing it, the widow in the kitchen 
started as one in a dreadful dream. 

" The Judge ! " she exclaimed. 

Her face lighted up. She went out, passed 
unnoticed in front of the Germans, closed the 
great gate of the farm, fastened it securely 
with a heavy wooden bar, removed a ladder 
which led to a hayloft, then made straight for 
the stable. 

The Germans were too intent upon their 
drinking to observe what she was doing. 

One of them had risen ; ceremoniously he 
proposed a toast. 

" Your Excellency, and gentlemen ! I et us 
drink the healfrh of our beloved Emperor ! " 

"Hoch! Hoch! Hoch ! " cried the officers, 
as they raised their glasses. 

The orator's face took on a satirical ex- 
pression^ he continued : — 

" To the superiority of the French cuisine I 
Permit me, Excellency, to give due credit to 
our enemy for this solitary but indisputable 
proof of his valour." 

Drunken laughter greeted this sally. 

" Yes," assented the general, " we will con- 
cede that much to this nation of weaklings, 
who are even weaker than I thought. These 
French fofl^^flEyffl ** ! This 









farm woman, for instance, has provided us 
with a very excellent meal. Yet her husband, 
so I have been informed, was shot here yester- 
day. Is it not so, Siegert ? " 

The little lieutenant, the author of the crime, 
rose to his feet and bowed respectfully. 

44 It is true, Excellency. The man had 
planned an ambuscade, and our brave soldiers 
were forced to defend themselves. Such are 
the regrettable necessities of " 

He stopped short, as though suddenly 
petrified. • 

About ten paces from the revellers stood — 
the bull 1 Liberated by the widow, he had 
come forth silently, and now stood, motionless 
and blinking, apparently considering the 
officer. The sudden transition from the dark- 
ness of his stable to the blazing sunshine with- 
out had for the moment blinded him. 

He was a splendid beast, a four-year-old, 
black, with bluish shades, without spot or 
blemish. From his damp muzzle hung an 
iron ring. With his heavy dewlap drooping 
between his short legs, he looked the imper- 
sonation of tremendous, irresistible strength. 

Across Siegert' s drink-dazed brain flashed 
the recollection of his victim's warning. 

7 The Judge— not to be trusted — dangerous, 
even with us." 

A cold sweat broke out upon the man's 
body. He grasped his revolver, and, stretch- 
ing out his arm, cried : — 

" Look out ! The bull ! " 

The startled Germans had scarcely grasped 
the situation before the bull, making a sudden 
decision, charged. 

Crash went the table — there came an uproar 
of appalling sounds, the noise of broken glass, 
guttural oaths, the fierce stamping and tram- 
\ ling of the bull, the groans of dying men. A 
few minutes, and nothing was left but a 
quivering mass, a pool of blood, in which the 
terrible, goring beast waded and slipped. 
Intoxicated with fury, he returned again and 
again to toss those dislocated puppets, those 
mangled bodies, those broken bones. 

Only Siegert, the murderer of Tailleux, had 
had time to fly. He reached the gate, and 
thought himself already safe. But he had not 
reckoned on the bar. Though he tugged at 
it so frantically that he tore his nails, it 
resisted all his efforts to move it. And there 
was no other way of escape. 

And now the bull perceived him, and came 
upon him with a rush. 

Literally driven into a corner, the wretched 
man emptied his revolver. A bullet, grazing 
the beast's shoulder, increased his fury. On 
he came. The gate shook and trembled with 

the concussion. There was a fall, a cry of 
anguish ; the cruel, powerful horns had done 
their work. 

Silence fell upon the sunlit courtyard. 
With a limping foot — which had been cut 
by the fragment of a bottle— the Judge 
returned to his stable. The door was shut. 
There for awhile he stood patiently, with the 
blood dripping from his neck. At last he 
uttered a long bellow. His call was answered. 
A wan face appeared behind a window of the 
kitchen, the door was opened, and the widow 
came down the steps into the courtyard. 

She had witnessed the massacre with thrills 
of joy. Now she came towards the Judge, 
calling his name. Her hands were crossed 
upon her breast. The animal seemed sur- 
prised, scratched on the ground, and lowed. 

The woman closed her eyes, and knelt as 
if to pray. 

" I am coming to you, my husband/' she 
said, in a low, fervid tone. " Now that you 
are avenged there is nothing to keep me here." 

Some minutes passed. Death was slow 
in coming, and with all her courage she 
found this waiting for it a fearsome thing. 
She dared not open her eyes ; doubtless the 
beast was preparing to charge. She heard 
him approaching. Then suddenly she felt 
upon her clasped hands a great, wet caress. 
The Judge was licking her hands ! His fury 
had subsided ; he recognized the friend who 
had brought him up. This brute, lately so 
ferocious, was now showing something very 
much like affection. 

An unexpected solace had come to the 
widow's heart. Her over-strained strength 
forsook her. Sobbing, she laid her hands on 
the great head bent over her, and, all dabbled 
though it was with blood, she kissed it 

Then, rising from her knees, she passed her 
finger through the ring in the bull's nose, and 
led him into the stable. 

That night the White House was pillaged 
and burned down. Such was the revenge 
of the " cultured " Germans. Vindictively, 
with awful threats, they sought the widow, 
but they sought her in vain. 

Some time after their departure, when 
tongues were free to wag again, a neighbour 
affirmed that early in the evening of that 
tragic day he had met the widow on the high 
road to Paris. She was staring upwards into 
the sky, as one who sees a vision. In her 
arms she carried a bundle of clothes, and 
close behind his mistress, limping and lowing, 
followed the black buiL 


H, m; bateman* 

I bota, bv U, Park. 





R + H. M. BATEMAN possesses 
in remarkable degree that rare 
gift, a real power of comic 
draughts manship. He is 
capable not only of comic 
vision, but of comic ex- 
pression. His 'Mine " is an 
instinctive expression of the comic ; it re- 
veals an innate feeling for the essentially 
humorous. To put it briefly, if somewhat 
\ ciLiut-ly* he "draws funnily." He is the 
terse and witty pictorial raconteur t a shrewd 
observer who can sum up a character,, or 
conjure up a scene, with a few strokes of 

such penetrating insight that they carry 
instant conviction. 

Mr* Bat emu n once received a letter from a 
stranger great ambition was apparently 
to become his personal attendant* After sug- 
gesting various capacities in which he could 
be employed, the unknown correspondent 
continued : li I am sure I should make you 
a good Servant, and could be of great use as a 
model for your work, as I would twist my 
face and body into any possible shape you 
might require," 

There is something very engaging about the 
naive supposition here conveyed that Mr. 


THE PIANIST— A STUDY IN ™*^ffi B |f rorn 
ft? j*crt*n*Mtntt i*f "■ Tht jSft J ~' 




but it is so evenly and (in a sense) 
unobtrusively applied that the figures 
seem to have grown of themselves 
under some system of intensive cul- 
ture* No one, least of all perhaps 
the artist, could analyse the stages 
by which these types were evolved. 
They do not exist in the flesh, yet 
there is not a musical reader of this 
magazine who has not heard them 
play at some concert or other. Their 
truth is undeniable, Merely to look 
at No, 1 is to hear the respuqding 
chords of his commanding opening, 
while No, 2 is austerely and dis- 
passionately fingering a fugue by 

This is scarcely the art of a man 
who draws from the model 1 And us 
with character, so with action — what- 
ever Mr. Bat em an elects to make his 
puppets do, they do it with an 
intensity and vigour beyond all prac- 
tical possibility f but not (and this is 

/fj jiei-mtMicm of " ike &fo>tth.' 

Bale man carefully and laboriously 
draws his humorous studies from the 
modiL But apart from its •ab- 
surdity , the notion is interesting 
for the complete misconception it 
evinces of the nature of the artist's 

Anything more unlike Mr, Bate- 
man's actual method than the 
academic process of working from 
a model it would be difficult to 
imagine — unless it were the opposite 
extreme of caricature. Possibly this 
souncjs paradoxical, for Mr. Bate- 
man is often described as a carica- 
turist, and sometimes does actually 
adopt that role. But the term is not 
properly applicable. Caricature is 
the art of inducing humour, by dint 
of satirical exaggeration, in a sub- 
ject not necessarily humorous of 
itself. Mr. Rateman's function is 
to reveal humour, not to impose lL 

Consider the studies of the two 
pianists reproduced in these pages. 
These are not caricatures in the 
ordinary sense of the word, though 
superficially they may seem to 
warrant that description. Ex- 
aggeration they certainly displa^. ) 

" ALL THi'* , r*Qk'l*kfeliftJS'"£NCE ! * 





Bg perntiMrim. •/ " TKt WJafcA" 

the artist's secret) beyond the bounds of 
imagination and belief. When a man is seen 
running in a Bateman drawing he dues not 
merely run— he super-runs j if he slumbers, 
one can veritably hear him snore ! The 
intensity of the artist's imaginative effort 
visualizes for us that which cannot humanly 
be, but would be if it could. 

In " The Accompanist Who Did Her Best " 
we have another study, less subtle but more 
vivid, of the musical temperament, which also 
illustrates admirably - the comments already 
made upon the artist's imaginative method. 
Three things the artist sets out to portray— 
the ungovernable rage of the musician, the 
uncomprehending amazement and alarm of 
the lady who has volunteered to " do her best," 
and the consternation of the onlookers. It 
will hardly be denied that in all three objects 
he has succeeded ! In many respect* this 
drawing is typical of Mr. Bateman 's peculiar 
qualities. It shows, for one thing, his clutch 


on the inherent humour of a situa- 
tion- Compare the anatomical 
impossibility of the musician wilh 
the ekrtrih in^ activity of lii^ onset, 
and you get an insight into the 
artist's power of imaginative concep- 
tion. Scrutinize the profile of the 
luckless accompanist, and you re- 
ceive a lesson in what the artist's 
nervously - humorous (i line ^ can 
accomplish* As for the blurred and 
hazy group of terrified spectator 
they positively flinch before one's 
eyes, so intensely is the mere sug- 
gestion of them conveyed. 

Tins faculty for seizing t h e 
humour of a situation is well ex* 
cmplificd in the drawing called " All 
This for Threepence,'' There is here 
no suspicion of a " joke " ; even the 
title, though it adds point to the 
picture , is by no means indispens- 
able. A better instance of 
" intrinsic ?1 humour could scarcely 
be selected. The details are indi- 
vidually commonplace and innocent, 
yet they combine to form a quite 
ludicrous whole. The humour lies in 
the situation, and only a humor ist 
of Mr. Bateman *s peculiar bent 
could thus reveal it to us. 

Qr take the case of M The Man 
Who Only Wanted Two Half- 
pennies for a Penny," Perhaps the 
title is needed to explain precisely 
how justifiable is the busy barber's 
fit of homicidal mania, but even if 


'EWifffnfofflffi"™* OF hahsy 



2J 5 


Jig ptrui Ution vf "' London Opinion- " 

we were left ignor- 
ant of the exact 
nature of the ill- 
timed request j the 
dements of the sit- 
uation are all there 
and tell their own 
simple story. Once 
more it is the hu- 
mour of the situa- 
tion as a whole 
which moves us to 
laughter. Funny as 
are the individual 
figures in the 
row of impa- 
tient patients 
awaiting the 
razor, it is their 
cum uiative 
effect that 
tickles us — the 
air of irascible 
inquiry and 
indignant pro- 
test against the interruption, which pervades 
the whole dozen. The arrested figure of the 
barber ? with razor poised in the air, even the 
rolling eye of the customer under his thumb 
who dares not move his head for fear of acci- 
dents — every detail of the exact psychological 
moment has been seized. The moment is big 
with fate , and the swift retribution which tiie 
panel underneath reveals to us appears a just, 
inevitable sequel. 

It has been mentioned that Mr, Bateman 
sometimes adopts the ordinary caricaturist's 
rolf; and turns his attention to persons instead 
of types. For a long time his caricatures of 
plays and players have been (or were, before 
the war gave the artist more absorbing occupa- 
tion) a feature of the Sketch, and there are few 
notable theatrical folk who have not, in one 
impersonation or another, been subjected to 
his humorous analysis. 

One or two examples of this vein are repro- 
duced here, 14 Harry Lauder/' a hitherto 
unpublished impression, is characteristic, and 
shows that even w r hen dealing with an indi- 
vidual personality the artist pursues the same 
trend of observation. Where all is exaggerated, 
it is impossible to say that this or that feature 
has received special emphasis. The aim has 
been rather to distil the essence of the subject^ 
and in so far as the sketch conveys a suggestion 
of the broad, unctuous humour of the Scottish 
comedian , of his gait, his carriage, and his 
manner of attire, it achieves its purpose. 
Superficially, one has seen, from Mr. Bate- 

man himself, caricatures of Harry Lauder 
which were closer likenesses. But in mere 
outward appearance the artist is much less 
interested than in underlying character. Mr. 
Bateman would hardly claim the caricature 
M George Grossrnith " as a portrait, even of 
the exaggerated kind. But it 
conveys, reduced to simplest 
terms, a very definite impres- 
sion of the actors character- 
istics—the characteristics, let 
it be added, of Mr. Grossmitlvs 
stage presence, that familiar 
and uniquely entertaining 

The artist relates an amusing 
experience which befell him in 
the course of his theatrical 
work. He had occasion to 
make a study of a well-known 
actress, and, after watching 
her performance from the front 
of the house, went behind the 
scenes during an interval with 
the object o£ making a 
sketch at closer quarters. 
In the wings he was met 
by an odd little man who 
conducted him to the 
1 a d y*s dressing-room. 
Here the artist w f as in- 
vited to make a sketch, 
his s e 1 E-appointed 
mentor being 
voluble in advice as 
. to how to set about 
it, and " almost doing 
the drawing himself," 
On eventually 

THE GKEATQfj^jffl^flJptf " AS H. M. BATEMAN 






ltd perluiMAHj't of ' LivJh>m 0,r.Hrt I >pi. " 

parting in the wings from his 
persistent guide, the artist could 
not restrain his curiosity any 
longer, lt By the way," he asked ? 
" what are you — the manager, 
or the call-boy ; or what ? " 

"Oh, no/ was the reply; 
" I'm the lady's husband ! " 

The sketches of " Little Tfch " 
impress the present writer as a 
veritable tour de force. For the 
famous little droll, as he appears 
upon the stage, is himself a living 
caricature, and to caricature a 
caricature seems like gilding the 
lily and other works of super- 
erogation. That the art is t 
should be able to take the pranks 
and oddities of the acrobatic 
midget and extract from them 
a humour of his own divining 
appears an extraordinary feat. 
Thus to refine another man's 
humour, and make us laugh over 
that which itself makes us 
laugh, is surely to elevate the 
humorist : s function into a fine 
art. Mr. Bate man's sketches of 
Little Tich draw a smile which 
fis not merely reminiscent; they 
discover a humour in the antics 
of their subject which is distinct 
from, and added to, that of the 
latter's own making. 

But on the whole the artist is at his best, 
perhaps, in his studies of types. ** The 
proper study of mankind is man " — not men, 
and consequently Mr, Bateman's generaliza- 
tions are of universal appeal. No one who 
has attended a public dinner can fail to 
recognize instantly i4 The Faithful Old Dog." 
He is a type of after-dinner speaker inevitably 
encountered, and affectionately tolerated, at 
every club function. There is a wonderful 
subtlety in the artist's handling of this 
character study. It is not enough that he 
should make us hear the old fellow speaking ; 
the very sentiments he is voicing, the genial 
witticisms in which those sentiments are 
phrased, and the tones in which they are 
uttered become audible as we study the draw- 
ing. Parenthetically one notes the perfectly- 
attuned expressions on the faces of the guests, 
and the waiter in the background. 

Character and situation combine to produce 

the drollery of M I Remember in 187c ," 

an imaginary picture df the scene in a Lond n 
club during war-time. The waiting lines of 




_. ■_.• r lC] 1 1 1 '.1 1 ITOlTl 



/Iff f.'£i r miKAum 0/ '" The tirajthtc " 

members impatient to " write to the papers 
about it " form a situation obviously pre- 
posterous, but rendered plausible, neverthe- 
less, by the nervous energy imparted to each 
little figure. Not a clubman of them all but 
is bursting with eagerness to seize a pen and 
tell 'em what he thinks about it. Read the 
letters in your morning paper, and you will 
(eel convinced that the artist has merely 

depicted what must be of daily, almost 
hourly, occurrence in any London club ! 

The catholicity of Mr, Kate man's humorous 
observation and the resourcefulness of his 
humorous draughtsmanship have made pos- 
sible a type of cartoon which is peculiarly the 
artist's own. This is the l 'crowd " drawing, 
in which not only is a large concourse of people 
represented with humorous regard for the 








— n 

handling of them *ro ma$st y hut each individual 
figure is the subject of separate and private 
humorous treatment- The reader of these pages 
will find in " The Missed Putt " a delightful 
example of this prodigal humoun Should it 
take him a week to survey the entire picture, 
and make acquaintance with every figure it 
contains, he will find the time amusingly 
spent j for the 
minor details 
are not less in- 
stinct with 
humour than 
the major. An 
vitality is 
ma in ta ined 
throughout the 
drawing ; and 
such intense 
emotion as is 
travestied by 
the utter col- 
lapse of the 
player, or the 
exultation and 
of the rival 
caddies, is re- 
peated through 
the whole 

No article on 
Mr. Hat Oman's 
humour would 
be complete 
which omitted 
a reference to 
his feud wilh 
Suburbia. Asa 
lule the artist's 
satire is genial, 
1 ut when the 
manners it n d 
customs, philo- 
sophy and 
ideals, of *' the 
suburbs " rorne 
lash mercilesslv 

4 a 




By permiitiim W " I*Md*ni. QpiniWi" 

under review he plies the 
Even so his drawings sel- 
dom give offence, for his satire, being mostly 
impersonal ; does not wound — save when the 
cap fits and the owner chooses to wear it ! In 
" The Smyth-Robinsons Decide to Take Their 
Meals in the Garden/' the reader will find a 
comparatively mild example of Mr. Bateman's 
pictorial lampoons, but, gentle as its raillery 
is, the commentary it provides is obvious. 

Mr. Bateman is a young man, and from 
such an original talent much may be expected 
in the future. It is not so very many years 
since the artist, calling anxiously at the office 
of a certain paper where he had left some 
drawings on approval, was told by the office- 
boy, E1 No, the editor ain't seen 'em yet. Call 
again next Monday, and vou'll get 'em back 

' all right!" 

The office-boy 
on that occa- 
sion proved to 
be a true 
prophet, b u t 
nowadays the 
case is some- 
what different* 
Considering his 
vigour and re- 
Mr. Bateman's 
output is com- 
small, but in 
assessing it one 
must reckon 
not only what 
he publishes 
but what he 
tears up ! It is 
the penalty of 
so direct and 
incisive a tech- 
nique that ulti- 
ma t e success 
must often 
(though not 
always) be 
achieved at the 
expense of 
many previous 
failures. This is 
perhapsas well, 
for, though 
more Bateman 
drawings would 
always be wel- 
come, it would 
be lamentable 
to see so rich a vein of humour work itself out, 
Fortunately, there seems little danger of 
that. The artist abhors a " chestnut/' and 
is not likely to allow his humour to become 
stereotyped to an approved (and sealed) 
pattern. On the contrary , one expects to 
see him ever breaking new and fresh ground ; 
and it will be disappointing if from a soil so 
vigorous and fertile a rich harvest in the 
future is r^itiMcpdrfj'o m 






By E. DYKE. 

Illustrated by //< Heath Robinson. 

ACOLINQ, the farmer's son, was a 
bright schoolboy, with many friends. 
Not far from the schoolhouse was 
the sea* and after school hours the 
children often went down to the 
shore to play and fish. 
did some funny fishing ! 
One day a boy fished 
out a pretty living 
kitten — a u blue Per- 
sian," with the love- 
lies* fur that ever cat 




" G i v e it to 

J a toli no. 

"No/' said the other 
boy ; iS I can't give it to 
you. It is such a darling 
little cat ! and you have not 
the money to pay for it." 
;| I have ! " exclaimed Jacolino. 
lt See ! here are two silver sixpences," 
Then the boy took the money and gave 
the cat to Jauolino, When he took her home 
bis father and mother were pleased, and gave him 
three silver sixpences as a reward. 

4 Now ; at last/' they said, 4 * we shall get rid of 
the mice in the harn. ?J 

The next day, when the boys were fishing, one 
of them pulled out a fine handsome dog. b * This is 
worth more than the cat/' said the boy, 
' Who will buy him for three silver six- 
pences ? +t 

" 1 will ! " cried Jacolino, bringing the 
money out of his pocket. 
The do^ was handed over to him, and 
he took it home. His parents 
were very much pleased, 

' This dog will catch the rats/' 
they said. And they gave jaeolino 
four silver sixpences as a reward 
for bringing home the dog. 




On the third day 
some of the chil- 
dren fished out of 
the sea a beauti- 
fully-marked little 
snake. Greedy 
Jacolino wanted 
t his a 1 s o , and 
bought it from the 
others with his 
four silver six- 
pences. This time, 
however, his father 
and mother were not at all pleased, and 
they scolded him for bringing such a 
11 horrid creature M into the house. 

" Very well/' said Jacolino, i( as you do not 
like my pretty snake, I will take him away/* 

He put the snake into his breast-pocket and 
walked off to the town, As Jacolino passed 
the Kings palace the Princess saw him from 
her window. 

*' Look, father ! " she said to the King. u see 
what a handsome boy is passing ! Dm take 
him into our service ! 

by Google 


The King, who always did 

a.> his daughter bade him, 

imiutf]ut''ly called in the 

boy and asked him what kind 

ol work he would like to do. 

Jacolino, who was not at 

all particular, said that he would be 

glad to do anything. 

He was takitn on as an under-pardener, 
and he worked so cleverly and behaved 
so well that lie won the good opinion of 
all who knew him. 

He still ku[)t the snake hidden in his breast, 
taking it out at night, and now and then 
during the day when nn one was about. 

One day the snake, for the first time, 
spoke to jacolino. 

u You work much too hard here, dear 
master/' he said. ll Go to the King, thank 
him for his kindness, and then let us leave 
this place," 

At first jacolino refused to do this, for he 
loved the good King and his charming 
daughter, and did not wish to leave them* 
But the snake would not let him rest, and so 
at last he gave in, and asked the King's per- 
mission to take a holiday. 

u Take one by all means/' said the King* 

11 You well deserve it. But be sure you come 

back to us, for we can't spare you altogether." 

Jacolino promised to return. Then he and 

his pet set off on their travels* 

* My dear master and friend," said the 
snake, wriggling out of Jacolino's pockfct 
when they had left palace and town far 
behind, il for a long time vmi have very kindly 





taken care of me ; now yt>u must 
let me do something for you. 
Sit down on my hack." 

" How can I do that ? " asked Jacolino, in 
amazement, ,L I should break you, you poor 
weak little thing ! " 

' Well, just try/' said the snake. 

Jacolino did as he was told, and the snake 
swelled out until he was immensely big and 
strong, and the boy's feet did not touch the 
ground. The snake then made his way into 
a little wood, where he stopped in front of 
a hollow tree. From this tree he took a 
whistle, which he placed in Jacolino's hands. 

The boy was very glad to get off his friend's 
hack j for the wriggling motion had made 

1 sea-sick." 
doubtfully at the whistle, 

" What am I to do with this ? " he asked. 

'* Blow it," said the snake, M and my father 
will appear. He is a dragon, with twelve 
heads, but don't be afraid of him + Ask him 
for the ring which he wears on his finger. 1 ' 

Presently they saw the dragon coming 
towards them. His twelve ugly heads gave 
him a very terrible appearance, but of course 
brave Jacolino was not in the least frightened* 

M Well ! M said this monster to his son, 
H where have you been all this long time ? " 

11 An eagle flew away with me and dropped 
me into the sea," replied the snake. " Some 
children who were fishing drew me out, 
then this good, kind friend bought me for 
four silver sixpences." 

** Oh, indeed 1 " said the dragon, carelessly. 
He looked at Jacolino. *' What/ 3 he in- 

quired, " do you ask in re- 
turn for your care of my 
? " 

li Nothing but that gold 
ring which I see on your 

"You can't have that /" 
said the dragon, snappishly, 
(Please observe that he was a 
** snap-dragon.* + ) "Ask me for something else/' 

" No, no, w ! " cried the snake ; " give him 
the ring, father. He shall have the ring ! " 

11 He shall not have the ring ! " roared the 

The snake and the dragon began to fight* 
Both were very strong, but the snake— though 
he did not look it — was the stronger, and the 
dragon had to give up the gold ring, 

44 Put this on your finger/' said the snake 
to Jacolino* *' Whenever you are in need of 
anything turn %im ring three times ; then 




three giants will jump out of it and hasten to 
obey your commands. If you use these 
servants of yours wisely, you will very soon 
he the richest man on earth. Now, I am sorry 
to say, I must remain here with my father, 
but I shall never forget you, and I hope that 
you will not quite forget me" 

" Never ! '" said the huy. lie fell very sad 
at having to part with his friend the snake, 
but as he walked on towards his home his 
spirits revived, and though he was not parti- 
cularly in need of anything, he thought that 
he would just turn the ring and see what would 
happen. He turned it three times, and out 
of it jumped immediately the three giants. 

" What does our master require ? " they 
asked, eagerly all speaking together. 

Nt I wish two of you to go on before me 
and turn my father's house into a splendid 
castle. 1 wish the other one to remain with 
me and carry me home/' 

Jaeolino's orders were instantly obeyed. 
Two of the giants went on, the other carried 
him home. There Jaeolino found his father 
and mother, sitting in a ^rand castle without 
knowing in the least how they got there. 
The cat and dog were lying on a magnificent 
rug in front of the fire. 

Jaeolino related his adventures, and told 
his parents that the dearest wish of his heart 
was to marry the beautiful Princess. The 

very next day jaeolino"* mother went tu as 
the King, to whom she said that her son, the 
former gardener- boy, having become an 
exceedingly great and power- 
person, desired to marry 
His Majesty's daughter. 

" Well,"" said the King, 
( * he may have her 
if he can do two 

** What are 
they ? " asked the 

" We will take 
one at a time/' re- 
plied the King. 
41 The first thiny 
is this ; that 
li e t. w e v n m \ 
palace and your 
castle twelve regi- 
ments of soldiers 
shall be posted to- 
night, with all 
their hands play- 
ing, one as beauti- 
fully as another/' 

Home went the 
mother, and told 
Jaeolino what the 
King had said. 

by Google 





11 All right ! " said the voung man, cheer- 
fully. fI Til soon do that!" 
At midnight he went outside the castle 
and turned his ring 
three times. 

The three giants ap- 

14 W hat are your 
orders, master ? '* they in- 

" That to-night, be- 
tween my castle and the 
King's palace, shall be 
posted twelve regiments 
of soldiers, with all their 
bands playing, one as 
beautifully as another." 

41 It shall be 




very bare 
it into a 
quarts of 

looked from his window and saw 
twelve regiments of soldiers- All 
bands were playing in perfect tune 

4 * Wonderful ! " exclaimed the King. 

After this, he sent to tell Jacolino the second 
thing which he had to do before he could 
marry the Princess, 

This was the message ; — 

*' Near my palace there is a 
mountain. By to-morrow turn 
vineyard j and arrange that two 
wine from it shall stand on mv 

Of course, the three giants easily managed 
this small matter, and the two quarts of wine 
duly appeared on the King's breakfast- tahle 
the next morning. Then Jacolino was 
allowed to marry the beautiful Princess, who 
oved him every bit us much as he loved 
her. Soon after the wedding the old King 
died, and the lady became u Queen Jaco- 
lina/ ? Her husband , King Jacolino, often 
lent her his magic ring. One day she gave 
him a pleasant surprise, by sending the 
giants to fetch his old friend the snake. 
As the dragon was now dead the snake was 
easily persuaded to make the palace his 
home, A very happy home it was. 



Original from 


\We shall be glad to restive Contributions io this section^ and to pay jot such as are accepted ] 



BKUAD streaks of red paint cover t e 
footpath in front of a shop in Los 
Angeles, California, converging upon the 
enterprising merchant's show-window, The 
pedestrian naturally follows the maze with 
his eyes t and perhajJS with his steps. lie is 
directed to the shop-front, where the lines 
of red paint are carried up the wall leading 
to the plate glass ; inside the pane each line 
is follow ed up by a band of red ribbon which 
leads from that particular point on the glass 
tii Mnoe object in the show-window* marker 1 
conspicuously with a bargain price. As 
an advertising idea it is unique and 
effective. It may be added that the 
footpath lines are of a water -mixed 
p:jii it that washes off readily* — Mr, C. L. 
1355, West 36th Place, Los Angeles, CaL, 


of construction a few cottages stood on the low- 
lying ground and all but one were demolished. For 
some reason or other> however, the tenant of the 
remaining cottage refused to leave, and only when the 
water was actually turned on did he go, the result 
being that owing to the authorities not having 
time thoroughly to pull down the building, the 
remaining portion was eventually covered by the 
water of the ikw reservoir. — Mr. Robert E* Preston, 
8 T Shaftesbury Road, Da r wen, Lanes. 

I - 


TH E photograph 
above s h o w s 
the chimney -stack and 
portion of the gable- 
end of a cottage 
lying at the b >ttom 
of the Way oli reservoir 
at Enlwistlc, near 
B o 1 1 o n, Lancashire - 
During excessive 
thoughts, similar to 
the one we last ex- 
p Tie-need, resulting in 
the lowering of 
reservoirs, this cottage 
sh o ws itself. Only 
twice in thirty year* 
has this been un- 
covered, the last time 
being about sixteen 
years :igo. When the 
reservoir was in course 


THE wish to perform the seemingly -impossible 
has always been strongly implanted iii the 
human breast, and among the feats which have parti- 
cularly apjiealed to inventors at all times is that of 
walking or riding on water, One of the most practical 
of such inventions, here shown, js said to have been put 
in use in 1822. It w-;is called the Aquatic Tripod or 
Tncipede T and consisted of three circular floats con- 
nected by a framework raised in such a way as &> 
support a saddle for the aquaiist or tricipedist. He also 
had an extra supjKtrt breast high to keep htm steady 
while bird- shooting, for which purpose the machine 
was intended, while it was propelled by paddles fas- 
tened to the feet.— Mr, C. Van Noorden f 3$, Lincoln's 
Inn Fields, W.C 



327% Important Announcemen 

W. W. Jacobs 

Morley Roberts 

Max Pemberton 

Lena Ashwell 
Richard Marsh 
Adeline Genee 

4^H. B. Irving 
i^Ge|>. R. Sims 








-not Promises - 

of what Nestle 
Milk will do* 

*' I have, seven 
children now grown 
up. All have been 
fed an N^ilts Milt. 
My boys sue now 
serving i heir King 
and Country. hN 

" I have I ■-..hi; lil 
tap my si* children 
entirely on IfcitH 1 ! 
Milk, mid I melon 
photon of my eldest 
*on. aged i3| years, 
weight tzst, zlb.j 
height 5 ft, ii in. 
{12th Lvrtdvn Reft) 

"It was Nestl*^ 
Milk tn;il saved our 
i n|\ life. ?"-"=i he ftw 
the ^nlaHrkt. sickliest 
liahy ever born. H« 
is now 18." (Royaf 
Naval Dion.) 

" I thought perhaps 
y::u would like m 
Know of my son who b roue ht up on 
Nestle'* Milk, and 
has grown up a 
Mrynj;, healthy man. 
He is. now a-fi years 
of age- He has liech 
in Franc* since May/ 1 
(t(iftg$ Lpoot Regt.) 


now in preparation 


Begin Right 

^O give your baby 

Nestle's Milk from the 

oit/sef—and not to "chop 
and change T — that is the 
proved best way of ensuring 
happy childhood and hardy 
manhood or womanhood. 

Thousands of the splendid fighting 
men on whom oar Empire now 
depends were brought tip as children 
on Nestle's Milk —need more be said I 

The babies of to-day are born to tre- 
mendous responsibilities. Equip them 
to tear their hardens — make sure of 
sound health and fine powers of 
endurance by giving them In infancy 


Of alt Grours—<tuh pri(£ y j\d. and 4^ pir tin* 

Send us a postcard, mentioning 1 his magazine, jr ty p c /TM F ' S 1 1 

and we will send vou a most ini crest ing Al 1mm *T M iu»!^<\ 

of Portraits and Testimony of some of Eiir- flSW 1 S 5ft Jvf I \$j 


-not Promises - 

of what Nestles 
Milk will do, 

"Am sending- 
photo of my *o"i now 
in the Dardanelles, 
11 r. was nrcnfgM up 
an N cm It's Milk and 
Nestles Food. He 
is a big, fine fellow, 
19 year* of ?gr/ H 
(214 tk Queen's 
[fi,W.S.] Affft) 

* f My ftol d i^r boy wa s 
brought up largely 

on N'«iEe\MIl!/. He 
Is ?* fine specimen 

of a TOUTlg SOldttf/' 

Qrtgfnais can Jw 
seen on appficntion. 

land's iirave Defenders, who owe bo much of f^jk^A^* VsE?! 
their strength, hardihood and endurance tn the yty?.,i/iiK vHi 

faci that l hey were reared on Neslle j s Milk* 

NESTLE'S, 6-8, Eastcheap, E.G. 



H.M. the King 

. «mi 14 * ruicm" '; 


C^ f\r\n\t> Original from 



ni«iii«w< i™ Cnno 1 1 4 * ^ J 35-> Original from 



MARCH, 1916. 
Vol. li. No. 303. 



raveiier in 


Illustrated by J. E. Sutcliffe. 


HE Chief came into the room 
where Miss Ravenhill sat, a 
bundle of letters in his hand. 
" Brown is abroad, Sea- 
grave down with pneumonia. 
Our only confidential men ! 
It leaves us in rather a 

Miss Ravenhill ceased tapping her machine. 
She was not busy this morning, and only 
a moment before Mr. Helmesley's entrance 
she had mentally regretted the fact, as it 
made the monotony of existence more 
apparent. She leaned across for her note- 
book and pencil, then waited, her chin on 
her palm. 

A slight, pale girl, well-bred in appearance, 
and very quiet in manner, the Chief, who 
usually dictated to a man, had only begun 
to notice her during the past few weeks, 
though she had been in the firm just over 
a year. Once noticed, she gripped the 
attention in some curiously subtle fashion. 
Whether it was due to her steady, sea-grey 
eyes, the firm set of her lips, or the square, 
determined chin with its hint of a cleft, it 
would be difficult to say. She was so quietly 
self-possessed that her calm reached towards 
Mr. Helmesley and convinced him of her 

" I — won - der," he said, slowly, as if 
to himself. 

He could not be expected to know that, 
under her calm, Miss Ravenhill's heart beat 
at accelerated speed. She straightened her- 
self and drew forward her notebook again, 
the pencil poised to take down the words at 
his bidding. But the Chief continued to 
look at her in perplexity, and she dropped 
her hand again to the table. 

Miss Ravenhill saw that he had something 
in his mind, something that she hoped might 
prove to her advantage and distraction. 
For, truth to tell, after a life of freedom and 

good social standing, she abominated the 

secretarial round to which necessity had 
condemned her. 

From the time she entered the doors of 
Rice, Helmesley, Drane, and Co. (Rice was 
dead, and no one had seen Co.) to the hour 
she emerged at the end of the business day, 
she went through her evolutions with perfect 
precision and aptitude. It was not the 
firm's fault that they had no need of her 
quick intelligence. The work she was 
engaged upon was, of necessity, more or less 
mechanical, and twelve precious months out 
of her total of twenty-three years of existence 
had gone in secretarial pursuits. 

The Chief placed his bundle of corre- 
spondence on the table, and paced up and 
down the room, but his gaze always came 
back to Miss Ravenhill, and tornjented her 
with its vague possibilities. At last he spoke 
again : — 

" Ordinarily, you seem to keep your wits 
about you, Miss Ravenhill. I wonder if 
you would in an emergency ? " 

The girl's figure became a degree more 
erect, as she stiffened into attention. 

" I am sure of it," she said, quietly. 

" No one — ipan or woman — can be certain 
until the occasion arises." 

Miss Ravenhill suddenly flamed into life. 

" Won't you trust me, Mr. Helmesley ? 
I assure you, I have plenty of initiative and 
common sense. Do try me." 

The Chief smiled. Then he sat down near 
the bureau, folding his arms. 

" I am half-inclined to. I feel you are to 
be relied upon." 

" Thank you," said Miss Ravenhill, and 
there was real gratitude in her tone. " You 
may trust me to do my utmost." 

Mr. Helmesley bowed. " I am convinced 
of that. The only doubt I have is my right 
to place you in a position of difficulty, and 
perhaps a little danger — yes, there might be 

Miss Ravenhill sat erect. 




"Danger! Good ! " 

The Chief laughed outright. 

" What it is to be young ! Well, listen. 
As you know, we lawyers are often asked by 
clients to safeguard family valuables, in 
addition to papers. This morning I have 
had a letter from a client in the country, 
requesting that I would send down a trust- 
worthy representative to receive a necklace 
of great value that must be put into safe 
custody with us at once. I have heard of 
the necklace before. It is the personal 
property of this lady, Mrs. Devenish. She 
is the second wife of Devenish of Clones — a 
magnate in a small way, a good deal older 
than his wife. I have seen her several 
times — she is a charming woman." 

The Chief was. busy sorting out the letter 
from the sheaf he had brought with him. 
He drew it out, and she saw that the large, 
square envelope was marked " Private and 
Urgent." Before detaching the letter itself, 
he scrutinized the postmark. 

" I noticed at once that it was not posted 
in the village sub-office, but in a town some 
miles away. She tells me that the letter is 
being posted by her own hands. She seems 
extremely anxious to rid herself of the 
responsibility of the necklace. " 

" Is she afraid of burglars ? " asked Miss 
Ravenhill, keenly interested. 

" I do not know. She simply says that 
she is not feeling well, and that she is nervous 
lest anything should happen to the emeralds. 
She implies that Clones is not the safest 
place for the necklace, and that she prefers 
to leave it in my keeping, if I can arrange 
the matter for her without rousing undue 
comment on the reason for my representative's 
visit. 1 ' 

" Do you mind telling me of whom the 
family consists ? " 

" Herself, her husband — she is his second 
wife — the husband's son by his first marriage, 
and Mrs. Devenish's daughter — a girl quite 
young, about seventeen, I imagine, the only 
child of this marriage with Devenish of 

Miss Ravenhill, drinking in every word, 
looked up. 

" Then if I appear on the scene how am 
I to be accounted for ? " 

Mr. Helmesley looked slightly nonplussed. 

" That is preciselv what is troubling 

" What does Mrs. Devenish suggest ? " 

" She suggests nothing. There is very 
little initiative about her, and I fancy her 
life is not an easy one. She simply says 

that any arrangements I choose to make 
she will fall in with." 

'* If you were sending a man," said Miss 
Ravenhill, " what ? " 

11 Let us get rid of suppositions/' replied 
the Chief. " I am sending you." 

She nodded, her head on her hand. 
Suddenly she looked round. 

" Are Mrs. Devenish and her daughter 
plain or pretty ? " 

" They are both pretty." 

" Do they dress well ? " 

" On the few occasions I have seen Mrs. 
Devenish she was admirably dressed." 

Miss Ravenhill rose to her feet. 

" Then I'll go as a young person from the 
milliner's — a traveller in hats. Why not? 
They often go down to country houses to 
show their wares." 

" It seems a feasible idea," said the Chief, 
after a moment. " How are you going to 
get the hats and necessary equipment ? " 

" I have a friend who has started a little 
millinery business, and she will let me have 
samples willingly enough. After all, it will 
be good for her, too. Mrs. Devenish is 
bound to buy one or two hats, just to give 
credence to the traveller's presence in her 

Towards noon of the next day a telegraphic 
message reached the office. It was to the 
effect that the person from the milliner's 
would be met at Clones Station by a dark 
maroon car. She was to travel on the 
morning following by a train reaching Clones 
at twelve-thirty. 

Accompanied by a discreet number of 
flowered cardboard boxes marked " Betty — 
Modiste," Miss Ravenhill ensconced herself 
in the railway carriage, and looked out at 
the crowds hurrying by. 

Suddenly her eye lighted upon a tall, thin, 
aristocratic young man, who sauntered on 
to the platform and, as the train gathered 
speed, swung himself on without apparent 
effort. His movements brought him just 
within reach of Misa Ravenhill's carriage. 

He did not intrude upon her, but with a 
glance that swept concisely over her and her 
gaily beflowered hat-boxes he passed along 
the corridor out of sight. The slightly 
ironic twist of his mouth remained in Miss 
Ravenhill's memory. She had seen him 
before, on her way to and from the office, 
and in that momentary flash of glances there 
had seemed in his eyes to be a gleam of 

Miss Ravenhill, despising herself verv 



stranger, returned to her study of the land- 
scape. Her young, eager blood raced in her 
veins. From sheer joy she could have sung 
to the rushing noise of the train. She stood 
by the window, and laughed. She felt as 
if the world were made up of joy in one vast 
heap, leaving nothing in sky or land to wish 

A movement caused her to look round. 
The tall, thin young man stood in the corridor, 
his satirical glance upon her. There was 
Celtic blood in Miss Ravenhill. Now it 
seemed for an instant to cease racing, warm . 
and vigorous, in her veins and to become 
suddenly ice-chill. 

" Curious that he should be on the same 
train," Miss Ravenhill told herself, " but, of 
course, it must be quite an ordinary co- 
incidence. When I meet him anywhere he 
gives me a sense that he recognizes me ; yet 
if we had ever met in the old days, socially, 
I should not have forgotten him." 

Arrived at her own destination a few minutes 
later, she found the maroon car waiting for 
her. She and her boxes safely inside, the 
spare, elderly chauffeur mounted to his 
place. He had been a coachman from early 
manhood, and in every fibre of his being he 
resented the inroads made by machinery. 
He was a dour and disappointed man. 

Miss Ravenhill found the journey all too 
short. The high iron gates swung open as 
if by magic to the sound of the motor-horn, 
and the car ran smoothly between the trees, 
and drew up before a long brown house 
covered with Virginia creeper. 

She and her hat-boxes were ushered into a 
room at the left of the hall door. There 
were plenty of flowers about, with an open 
piano littered with music, and a guitar with 
streamers of rose-coloured ribbon. A large 
box of sweets, the contents tossed about as 
if favourites had been rifled, lay on the chintz 

She had hardly time to wonder if this gay 
room were the sanctum of Mrs. Devenish 
or her daughter, when the door opened to 
admit a young girl of such dazzling fairness 
that Miss Ravenhill involuntarily caught her 
breath. She was a slim, almost childish, 
figure in a short gown of Madonna blue, her 
small head " sunning over with curls," and 
large blue, dark-lashed eyes. 

Carol Devenish came forward with a swift, 
soft rush, then hesitated, her glance going 
from Miss Ravenhill to the gay hat-boxes. 

" You have come ! I'm longing to see the 
hats. It's ages since I had a new one ! Do 
let me see them ! Quick ! quick ! If you 

haven't anything for me I'll never forgive 
you. Ah-h-h- ! " 

Smiling a little, Miss Ravenhill opened a 

Carol Devenish gave a little cry, snatched 
its contents from her hand, and ran to the 
mirror, placing the hat on her golden curls. 

" There ! " she exclaimed, turning tri- 
umphantly. " It is the very hat I've been 
aching for." 

" Just a degree more closely down on your 
head." Miss Ravenhill might have been 
to the millinery manner born as she re- 
adjusted the hat. " That is most. becoming. 
You really could not improve upon it." 

" Too bad of you to steal a march upon me, 
Carol," said a voice behind them. 

Miss Ravenhill turned as Mrs. Devenish 
came into the room : a slight, graceful, pretty 
woman, delicate and a degree harassed- 

" I'll leave you the rest," said Carol, 
pirouetting before the mirror and tweaking 
a bow into place. " You may have them all. 
I see Quex coming up the garden — I'm going 
to show it to him." 

" Quex ! " exclaimed Mrs. Devenish. " Quex 
here to-day ? " 

But like a length of quicksilver Carol ran 
out at the open French window and dis- 
appeared. Mrs. Devenish, eager-eyed, all 
her languor gone, turned swiftly, and laid 
burning fingers on Miss Ravenhill's wrist. 

" You come from ? " 

" Mr. Helmesley, of Rice, Helmesley, Drane, 
and Co. Here is the telegram you sent 
him, to establish my identity." 

Mrs. Devenish took it, gave it a hasty 
glance, then tearing it across tossed it into the 
fire of logs which burned in the grate. 

" After luncheon — yours will be brought 
in to you here — I will give you the necklace. 
Show me a hat or two — quickly ! " 

The window was darkened suddenly. 

44 Quex loves my hat, and says he would 
like to pass an opinion on yours," said 
Carol, hanging on to her half-brother's 

For a fraction of time Mrs. Devenish 
hesitated, then she smiled. 

" Of course. Come in, Quex. What brings 
you down to-day ? And how did you come ? 
In the car with Madame ? " 

The tall, thin, satirical young man saun- 
tered into the room, bowing to Miss Ravenhill. 

u If Madame — Betty — permits." 

An ironic flash came to her from his eyes 
as he drawled the name. He altogether 
ignoreU N t'hER^iTeCstittnMHf H 1GA Htrri val. M iss 



admirable! suits vou wonderfully 

by Google 

Original from 



Ravenhill experienced an uncomfortable sen- 
sation. It was as though he knew the name 
was an assumed one. She merely bowed in 
response, and went on with her occupation 
of opening the boxes and disposing of the 
tissue-paper wrappings. 

" How did you come ? " repeated Mrs. 

Some sharpness in her tone riveted Miss 
Ravenhiirs attention. 

" I got out at the station before Clones, and 
there I happened to meet Batley, who gave 
me a lift." 

" Why ? " began Mrs. Devenish, when 

Miss Ravenhill, under lowered lids, managed 
to convey a warning glance to her, handing 
her, at the same time, a hat. 

The young man made no comment as 
Mrs. Devenish tried on three in succession. He 
leaned supinely against the piano, following 
every movement made by Miss Ravenhill. 
She was annoyed with herself for becoming 
nervous under his scrutiny. 

At the fourth hat he allowed himself an 

" Admirable ! Suits you wonderfully ! 
Carol's won't have a glance bestowed upon 
it when you are around. That soft, feathery 
thing — an osprey, is it ? — is delightful. Do 
you not agree, Madame — Betty ? " 

Miss Ravenhill stood back a little, her 
hands folded in the correct modistic manner, 
her head slightly on one side, considering her 
client. She wished this disturbing young 
man would take his departure. 

Mrs. Devenish smiled. She grew suddenly 
younger as she glanced at her step-son. 

" Then I will decide to keep this one, 
Madame ; and after luncheon I will perhaps 
choose another. You must be tired. Please 
make yourself happy here with books or 
papers. Wc lunch at one-thirty." 

Her glance ran with admiration over Miss 
Ravenhill. The latter might not be beautiful, 
but she had charm, and an inimitable style 
of her own. Good birth showed in every 
line of her as she gravely bowed her thanks 
and began to gather together the tissue- 
paper billows around her. 

Quex Devenish made a movement as if to 
help her. His step-mother slipped her hand 
through his arm, and turned with him 
towards the door. 

The door closed upon them. Miss Raven- 
hill, feeling suddenly released from espionage, 
sank upon tjie couch. 

" Come upstairs and see my bedroom/' 
said Carol the irrepressible, dancing back 
into the room, her new hat still upon her 

head. " Come along — we've got exactly ten 
minutes before lunch." 

They went swiftly up the wide staircase, 
which would have allowed five or six persons 
to walk abreast. In an upper corridor they 
met a small, grey, elderly man hurrying 
along with a peculiar sidelong action of the 
body. His eyes, as he glanced at Miss 
Ravenhill, were furtive. He, too, appeared 
to be a bundle of nerves, and he darted away 
before Carol could detain him. He brought 
to mind a grey fox evading his pursuers- 
It was difficult to believe that he was the 
owner of such a beautiful old place as Clones, 
and of such a wife and daughter, and — yes 
— of such a son. 

Quex Devenish might be satirical, but, at 
all events, he gave no impression of furtive- 
ness. On the contrary, there was about him 
some hint of the daredevil. 

Miss Ravenhill, at the clanging of the gong, 
was glad to get back to the chintz parlour, 
where she found a table spread for her. 
Carol threatened to bear her company, then 
just as quickly changed her mind. In her 
gay, irresponsible way she leaned up and 
kissed Miss Ravenhill ■lightly on the cheek. 
It was a butterfly touch. 

u You don't mind ? But I feel I could 
like you — enormously 1 " 

She nodded, laughed, straightened the hat, 
which the caress had slightly dislodged, and 
flew from the room. 

Miss Ravenhill had hardly finished her 
lunch when Mrs. Devenish entered. 

" May I ask you to come to my room ? " 
she said, in her tired, courteous way. " Here 
we are subject to interruptions by door and 
window. Let us take a hat-box each to give 
colour to our plans." 

She lifted a hat-box in each hand, and 
Miss Ravenhill took the remaining two 
boxes. The others now were empty. Under 
her quiet manner Mrs. Devenish was stirred 
to excitement. It was visible in her eyes 
when, in her own sitting-room on the first 
floor, she turned to face Miss Ravenhill. 
She did not sit down or suggest that Miss 
Ravenhill should be seated. On the contrary, 
she walked into the bedroom beyond, looked 
about her, and came back again. 

" Place the hats on the couch as if I were 
choosing another," she said, " and meantime 
tell me how you intend to carry the necklace." 

" I have my 

No, no — the least thing might induce you 
to lay it down. You must wear it round 
your neck. Have vou anv conception of its 



44 I know it is very great." 

" Listen ! " Mrs. Devenish's fingers, like 
fire, touched the other's wrist. " The 
emeralds are all I have to leave to my little 
girl should anything happen to me. All the 
rest of my possessions, money and jewels, 
have been sunk in Clones to keep it in good 
repair — for the only son. My child will 
have nothing from her father, and though 
Quex Devenish is good and devoted to her 
and to me, why should she be left to the 
caprice of any man ? He is sure to marry. 
My husband's one passion is Clones, and to 
keep it intact he would reduce us all to 
beggary where ready money is concerned. 
I have yielded far too much for the sake of 
peace. The necklace, at least, shall be 
Carol's — to be sold when she is of age, 
to provide an income for her. I will 
give it to you now. I trust you — you 
have a good face, and John Helmesley is 
no fool." 

She stooped, lifting the hem of her over- 
skirt. The next moment a ripple of green 
light fell from her fingers. 

Miss Ravenhill gave an involuntary 

" They can't be real ! " 

" Every one is flawless," said Mrs. Devenish, 
her hands shaking. " Stoop your head 
quickly — the clasp is double, and very 
strong. There ! they hang low, and for- 
tunately your bodice is very little trans- 
parent. Drgw it up a degree higher. That's 
right — no one can see. When you leave, 
turn up the fur of your coat collar. Your 
train goes soon. I should have liked you to 
stay a little, but it is wiser to get back. 
The days are short, and I shall be on tension 
until to-morrow, when I will drive into the 
town for a letter — you can post one to-night. 
Even now I ask myself is it well to trust a 
mere girl with it. Yet it is safer to get it 
away from the house." 

She raised her head to listen, then motioned 
towards the hats. Miss Ravenhill rustled 
the tissue-paper and held up a hat for 

The door opened very softly, and the face 
of the master of Clones appeared in the 
aperture. His narrow eyes glanced from wife 
to milliner, and back again. 

" My dear, have you yet decided to call 
upon the Wycherleys this afternoon ? " 

From his manner it was evident he expected 
some opposition. His face cleared when 
Mrs. Devenish said, quietly : — 

" Yes, Carol and I are going — our new hats 
enable us to do so. We can have the maroon 

car when it comes back from taking Madame 
to the junction." 

" I want the maroon car myself this 
afternoon," said her husband, suavely. 

It seemed to Miss Ravenhill, occupied on 
the surface with the hats, that he cast a 
slightly malicious look at his wife. She 
did not appear to be ruffled. 

" Then we must have the small car. You 
can spare Hindman, I conclude ? " 

" Of course. I shall drive myself in the 
maroon car — I have some distance to go." 

" Then we will arrange it so," said Mrs. 
Devenish, tranquilly. But Miss Ravenhill 
noted that her hands shook a degree. " Please 
tell Hindman to be ready at three-thirty. 
Now, Madame, I decide to keep two hats 
and one for my daughter. I see you have 
the bills of each. Allow me to make out a 

As she moved to the bureau her husband 
slipped from the room. Again the thought 
of a grey slinking fox "" came to Miss 
Ravenhill's mind. The atmosphere seemed 
pleasanter when he had gone. She put back 
the hats that were to be returned to town. 

Mrs. Devenish came towards her swiftly, 
the cheque in her hand. There was a red 
spot of colour on both cheeks, and her eyes 
held, deep down, a kind of fear. She seemed 
on the verge of a torrent of words, then, 
instead, touched Miss Ravenhill's arm. 

" You will take every precaution ? " 

Miss Ravenhill's fingers went to her breast, 
where the emeralds lay hidden. 

il Of course ! After all, no one knows." 

" I am watched from morning to night§ 
He has some devilish instinct about things. 
At least — no — I should not have said that to 
a stranger. Be careful and speedy, and 
don't travel alone." 

" I will take every precaution," replied 
Miss Ravenhill, who, to tell the truth, thought 
her new client a subject of nerves. u Please 
do not be anxious." 

" The moment I get Mr. Helmesley's note 
saying your mission is safely accomplished 
will mean peace. of mind for me — nothing 
matters after that. I have been a fool 
long enough. Carol shall have at least all 
that is left. My step-son's appearance to- 
day was a great surprise to me, and even now 
I cannot fathom the reason for his coming. 
He is usually too busy." 

" Busy ! " exclaimed Miss Ravenhill, in- 
voluntarily. " He hardly looks as if he had 
ever accomplished a day's hard work in his 
We." jinalfrom 

" flNiVBSirY tinifcmto™ 11 * law > ers 



in the country, so a very astute legal light 
told me. That lazy air of his covers a multi- 
tude of things that few people guess to be 

At that moment Carol came into the room 
in her quick, airy fashion. She carried a 
huge bouquet of flowers. 

" For you — Betty — Modiste," she laughed. 
" And wouldn't you like to see the gardens ? " 

Miss Ravenhill spent a pleasant half-hour 
wandering through grounds laid out with 
skill, and regardless of cost. In a distant 
veranda she caught sight of the two Devenish 
men — Quex, with his length extended limply 
in a long chair ; his father, pacing up and 
down with that swift, slinking glide of his, 
almost rubbing his shoulder against the vine- 
clad trellis. He and his son were talking 
together, and Quex was smoking a cigar. 
The scent of it came to Miss Ravenhill as she 

" I wonder if they are hatching plots ? " she 
asked herself, with that quickening of the 
pulses which the sight of Quex Devenish 
invariably brought. " I shall be glad to 
get away, though to think of danger seems 
ridiculous. Perhaps Mrs. Devenish's fears 
have infected me. They cannot possibly 

A, few moments later she was relieved to 
find herself, boxes and all, in the small 
automobile. It was shabby by comparison 
with the spick and span elegance of the 
maroon car. The chauffeur was not in his 
place, but soon he was visible hurrying 
round from the stable-yard. Only Carol 
was there to speed her on her way, and while 
waiting she sat in the car beside Miss Ravenhill 
laughing roguishly, like a child in possession 
of a secret. She was so exquisite that her 
words at parting did not dawn upon Miss 
Ravenhill untilthe car had started. 

She leaned up to Miss Ravenhill, laughing 
all the time, with a touch of malice. 

" Good-bye, dear Betty — Modiste. You'll 
have a surprise before long — I wish I could 
be there." 

She ran back to the steps of the house, a 
light airy figure, her golden curls ablow in 
the breeze, her hand waving in farewell. 

On the opposite cushions, tucked away 
among the hat-boxes, she saw a parcel 
addressed to her. It proved to be a large 
box of chocolates, tied up with rose-coloured 

This was the surprise. How good of the 
child ! This was her secret. Madge Raven- 
hill smiled in relief, and putting up her hand 
touched the hardness of the emeralds. 

VoL H.-22. 

In times of tension, every trifling word, 
however commonplace, is apt to take on a 
subtle meaning. She settled herself in her 
place as the car passed along the road. At all 
events, she had caught a brief glimpse of 
country scenes such as her soul loved, and 
would have the satisfaction of returning to 
the office in time to deliver the goods to Mr. 
Helmesley before going to bed that night, 
and so justifying his faith in her. 

The car went unevenly, jolting over a piece 
of ground whose roughness she had not 
remarked on coming. She was obliged to 
grip the leather strap in order to keep herself 
from being thrown from side to side. Per- 
haps there were two ways to. the station. 

Quick to remember landmarks, she saw 
. none that were familiar. The car was 
grinding its way at breakneck speed down 
an incline so steep as to be dangerous. 
Could the dour chauffeur, by any possibility, 
be intoxicated ? At all events, he must have 
turned into the wrong road. 

She leaned forward to attract his attention, 
speaking sharply. As he glanced round, 
the movement brought his profile in fuller 

With a violent revulsion of feeling she 
realized that it was not the face of the 
chauffeur, but the thin, clear-cut features of 
Quex Devenish. 

Her heart beat in hard jerks in unison with 
the jolting of the car. She huddled back in 
her corner, sick for a moment with appre- 
hension, and — yes — disappointment. If it 
had been the master of Clones she would 
have felt less surprise. 

The grinding noise of the car, as it slid 
down the steep and stony lane, deprived her 
of ready power of action. She saw now that 
they were no longer on the high road, but in 
a narrow offshoot that led — where ? 

She sat rigid in her corner, her brain 
beginning to clear. Her hand went to the 
pocket of her long coat, and the fingers 
settled on something there. 

The car rocked its way down the slope, the 
brakes grinding noisily. As he gripped the 
wheel the outline of the young man's face 
and shoulder took a more determined line. 
Beneath the tension of her mind lay another 
feeling which even Madge Ravenhill herself 
hardly realized, an acute sense of disappoint- 

The next moment they reached the level, 
but the car did not stop. It ran on for a 
short distance, and turned on through some 
open wooden gates into a kind of courtyard. 
There were half-ruined buildings around, and 






2 35 

a chimney-stack which had fallen in a heap 
of bricks. Evidently some factory now 

The car stopped suddenly. Before she 
could descend, Quex Devenish flung himself 
from his place, and, running to the gates 
pushed them to. They were rotten and 
covered with green mould, but he was able 
to get them closed. The bolts were rusty, 
and he did not attempt to shoot them into 
the still rustier sockets. 

When he turned round he found Miss 
Ravenhill confronting him, a pistol in her 
hand — a toy thing, glittering, but deadly, as 
he knew. 

The girl's grey eyes were dark and dilated, 
her face white, but her courage was not to 
be doubted. 

He looked back at her coolly, standing 
motionless, eye to eye. And again that 
thrill passed through the girl. 

" I beg you not to shoot," he said, quietly. 
** For more reasons than one it would be a 

ghastly blunder. When you understand " 

" Understand ! " She gave him a look of 
contempt. " There is nothing to under- 
stand. Do not trouble to explain." 

" There is a great deal to understand," he 
replied, in the same level voice. She noticed 
it had lost its drawl, and that there was a 
desperate earnestness in his closely-com- 
pressed mouth. 

" I wonder you could stoop so low. If 
you come a step nearer, I will shoot." 

" On the contrary, I mean to go farther 
away, and you may cover me all the time I 
am speaking to you. But I mean also to 
make you understand. We are here, miles 
from any person or place, and you have the 
emerald necklace in your possession." 
" Why should you suppose that ? " 
The ghost of his satirical smile crossed his 
lips, then his expression changed instantly 
to something so near tragedy that, involun- 
tarily, she lowered her weapon a degree. 

" That's right ! I am not going to touch 
you. I swear it. Or the emeralds, either. 
It will be as great a relief to me when they 
are in safe keeping as to you, Miss Ravenhill." 
The girl started, but her grasp of the pistol 
was still firm. He waved aside the question 
in her eyes. 

" That can all be explained later. Mean- 
time, it rests with you and with me to safe- 
guard the jewels." 

An earnestness, almost a solemnity, in his 
voice impressed itself upon the listener's 
heart. She had to steel herself to disbelieve 
his honesty. His knowledge was uncanny* 

" Then why bring me to this lonely spot ? " 

" Because up there, on the level, danger 

" Danger ! You expect me to believe 

" Believe it or not, as you please — it is 
the truth. If I tell you certain things 
that affect me, personally, very closely, I 
must exact from you a promise not to 
divulge them to a soul — not even to Mr. 

For a moment Miss Ravenhill imagined he 
must be in urgent need of money, and, by 
touching her sympathies, thought he might 
induce her to condone his attempted theft of 
the emeralds. Her slender figure stiffened, 
and she closed her fingers more firmly on 
the revolver. His smile flashed out for an 
instant. Then she noticed how tired his 
face was, and how drawn. 

" I may as well tell you that no confidences 
will induce me to part with what I hold in 
trust. I shall shoot you without com- 
punction if you attempt to get the emeralds." 

Quex Devenish shrugged his shoulders. 

" Good heavens ! How can I convince 
you that the safeguarding of the emeralds is 
more to me than to anyone ? " 

He pointed to a rough stool and table at 
a little distance, in what remained of the 
ruins of a room. 

" Sit down there. You've naturally had 
a shock over my apparent cut-throat 
behaviour. Cover me all the time with your 
weapon, and when I've finished you'll lower 
it of your own accord. Meantime, let me 
remind you that the train is due at the 
junction in twenty minutes. Don't worry. 
I'm the honestest man 'ive over those 

There was a hint of pleading in his voice, 
which almost convinced her. But she leaned 
her elbow on the mildewed wpoden table, 
and hardened her heart. Too much hung 
upon the issue for personal feelings to slip 
in. Thrfiugh all her fear she felt his attrac- 
tiveness, and it made her the more pitiless. 
He leaned against the whitewashed wall, but 
there was a tension now about his figure, 
rather than supineness. His eyes held hers 

" I must catch that train back to town," 
said Miss Ravenhill, stooping to plead. 

He bowed. 

" Give me five minutes to explain, and 
we'll do it easily." 

As she made no comment, he went on : — 

" In order to drive the car this afternoon 
I had to lock Hiridrroji into his own room, 



after helping myself to his coat and cap. 
The other car left earlier." 

" I wish — I wish I could believe you ! " 
broke in the girl, impulsively. " But " 

He straightened himself, and faced her ; 
and again she read in his eyes that hint of 

" You shall believe in me — later. At 
present, I am in the unenviable position of 
telling unpalatable truths about my own 
father. The only merciful construction to 
be placed upon his actions is insanity. 
Where Clones is concerned he is not normal. 
He would ruin himself body and soul for 
Clones. He married the present Mrs. Deven- 
ish for her money — and he has had it all, to 
fling away on making Clones more perfect. 
And, you see, I, being heir to Clones, am 
in an unfortunate position. Mrs. Devenish, 
who has loved and been good to me ever 
since I was a little chap of twelve, when she 
married my father, has shown her only 
firmness by holding on to the emeralds. She 
never dreamt he would touch them. Lately, 
I suppose, she has had her doubts — just as I 
have ; but equally neither she nor I cared 
to reveal our suspicions — she of her husband, 
I of my father. She is afraid of him, I can 

see, while I ! " He gave a short laugh. 

" He has never shown me an instant's 
real affection since I can remember, I 
have known for some time that he was 
in debt, and desperately cornered for 
ready money. On the subject of Clones he 
is a maniac. He is determined to have 
those emeralds — and Mrs. Devenish is a poor 

He broke off, and looked at his watch. 

" Unless you tmst me soon we shall miss 
the train." 

Miss Ravenhill rose slowly, her face 
quivering in a medley of emotions. Her 
heart said " Trust him." Her reason hesi- 
tated. It might be only a plausible tale. 

He drew one step nearer. 

" Look at me," he said. 

Miss Ravenhill looked him straight in the 

" Now do you trust me ? " 

" I don't know," said the girl, miserably. 
" I want to, but " 

" You may — I swear it. Are we to catch 
the train ? Can't you trust me ? " 

In spite of her level head Madge Ravenhill 
sometimes allowed herself, very wisely, to 
be swayed by her heart. 

For answer she laid down the pistol on 
the table between them, and put her hands 
behind her back. Then, under the look he 

gave her, she blushed vividly, and walked 
towards the car. 

He made no movement to touch the pistol. 

" Take it with you," he said. 

Miss Ravenhill burned her boats still more 
completely. She glanced back at him over 
her shoulder : — 

" Carry it for me, please." 

He put it into his pocket, and with one 
stride overtook her, holding out his hand. 
It was a long, capable, sinewy hand, and as 
she put her own into it his grasp closed round 
her palm like steel. There is much virtue 
in touch. Some element in him seemed to 
vibrate to some quality in herself. 

He pulled open the gates. " It's going to 
be a pretty close run," he said, as they 
started, " and if we had that hill to climb I 
doubt if we could catch the train. For- 
tunately there is another way." 

Miss Ravenhill said nothing. He was 
attuned to do his utmost for her. Why urge 
him ? 

The train was actually in the station as they 
drew up. He helped her out, and leaving 
car and contents to Fate he took her by 
the arm and raced through the entrance and 
boarded the train, regardless of protesting 
officials. As it neared the end of the plat- 
form, he leaned out, shouting to a porter : — 

" Just look after the car for me, Jenks. I'll 
be down again by an evening train." 

Then he threw himself into the opposite 
seat, quick-breathed from his haste. 

" The nearest thing, wasn't it ? Why, 
what's the matter ? I thought you'd be 
glad ! " 

" S-s-so I am," said Miss Ravenhill, jerkily, 
the tears falling down her cheeks. " Only — 
that is — don't look at me for a minute 
— I'm so glad — it's such a relief — and — and 
— I've been at tension all the time — and 
pretty badly frightened." 

u Of course ! " said the young man. And 
he looked steadily for a few minutes away 
from her quivering face, when all the time 
he wanted to take her in his arms and comfort 
her. Her tears hurt him intolerably. 

But Miss Ravenhill very soon recovered> 
her poise. She dried her eyes, and looked 
at him. 

" It seems rather an absurd thing to say 
after my suspicions of you — which, after all, 
were not surprising " 

" On the contrary, most natural. What is 
the absurdity ? " 

" That you can't imagine how glad I am 
to have you here, I feel safer — even now,, 
when there's nothing io fear." 

uhiy Lnji 1 r 




She looked around her, shivering. 

Twilight began to darken the land. He did 
not tell her that drawn up near the station 
entrance was a maroon car, and that on the 
platform he had caught a swift glimpse of 
his father watching the entrance. 

" Why did you come with me ? " 

Quex Devenish laughed. " Well, there 
really wasn't time to do anything else. 
Besides " 

" Yes ? " 

He hesitated. 

" I shall not be satisfied until I have seen 
you home, after delivering the goods to the 
firm's keeping." 

Suddenly, as he looked at her, he leaned 
across, holding out both hands. After an 
instant's pause she put her own into them. 
Their eyes met, and she realized that with him 
all the jewels of Golconda would have been 
safe. It seemed incredible to have doubted 

" I've known you for such ages," he said, 
almost boyishly. " It is the most natural 
thing in the world to talk to you, and yet so 
heavenly strange." 

There was no mistaking his tone. Her 
heart stirred tumultuously. She drew her 
hands away. 

" Known me for ages ! I am quite sure 
I should not forget having met you. Even 
in my father's lifetime when we entertained 
and travelled so much." 

" Don't you remember having seen me 
before to-day ? " 

The girl's beautiful eyes met his frankly. 

" Sometimes, lately, going to the office, 
and to-day when, by a strange coincidence, 
we happened to travel by the same train." 

He laughed softly, and she tried not to see 
the tenderness in his eyes. 

" Listen ! Three years ago I was staying 
at a seaside hotel, when a car drove up with 
luggage. You were in it with your father. 
You wore a dark blue coat and skirt — some- 
thing like what you have on now, only made 
differently, I suppose. And I remember 
you wore a rose tucked in the breast of your 
coat. Does all this bother you ? " 

" Not at all." Madge gave a little embar- 
rassed smile. " I am only astonished at the 
length of your memory." 

" There are other things I could tell you 
if you cared to hear them — just exactly how 
your hair waved under your hat brim — the 
colour of your eyes — the way " 

" No, no, please I " She put her hands to 
her ears. " I will take your memory for 
granted. And what happened ? " 

" When you had gone up to your rooms I 
was consumed with fear that your father 
might be your husband. I inspected the 
visitors' book and found ' Mr. and Miss 
Ravenhill.' You dined in your own rooms 
that evening — he seemed something of an 

" He was dying, really," said the girl, 
-quietly. " And the next day he longed so 
to get home that we left the hotel. He was 
restless always." 

" Ah ! that accounts for it. I was wired 
for early next morning on urgent business, 
and was away a couple of days. W ? hen I 
got back you were gone. All my hopes to 
get to know you and your father vanished. 
But I am a believer in Fate, and I knew, in 
every fibre of me, that some day you and I 
would meet again. I saw you for the second 
time seven months ago turning into the 
offices of Rice, Helmesley, Drane, and Co. 
After that — often. When I could possibly 
manage it, nearly every day. I knew I 
must bide my time — you are not the kind 
to allow yourself to be known promiscuously." 

Madge Ravenhill made no comment. He 
went on : — 

" To-day the stars in their courses fought 
for me. I was coming out of the station 
after buying a paper at the bookstall when 
you drove up with your hat-boxes, and I 
heard you tell the porter to put them on the 
train for Clones. I booked a ticket there, 
too. It seemed such a gorgeous opportunity. 
I took my chances that your wares might be 
for my people. It is not unusual for goods 
to be sent down." 

" But it would not necessarily imply that 
I was* to carry off the emeralds ! " 

" Emeralds ! They were the last things 
that occurred to me. It was you I wanted 
to meet — somehow — anyhow. Later — as, of 
course, I knew you to be masquerading — 
I guessed. I am pretty quick at deduction, 
and at reading faces. My stepmother is 
not a past-master in conspiracy. Now, is 
she ? " 

" No," agreed Miss Ravenhill. 

" I knew my father was in money diffi- 
culties, due to his own extravagance over 
Clones. It seems he, also, drew deductions ; 
and to save my father's honour I had to 
take a rapid hand in the game that was 
being played. We were all at cross-purposes. 
Mrs. Devenish thinks I do not know my 
father's weaknesses, and she has loyally 
hidden them from me. Frankness between 
us would have been far wiser. To-night, 
when the emexalds are safe, and I get back 

2 3 8 


again to Clones, I will tell her all about it, 
if I may." 

" It will save her hours of anxiety. By 
the way, tell me — did your sister Carol 
guess ? " 

" Not about the emeralds, but, unfor- 
tunately, she saw me in Hindman's hat and 
coat. I told her it was a joke, and she was 
not to breathe a word, but just to unlock 
the door for Hindman when we were safely 
away. She is so infatuated with vou 
herself " 

Miss Ravenhill coloured vividly, and turned 
the subject. 

" The car will not be back in time for 
their afternoon call on the Wycherleys." 

" They will not care." 

" Your father, I remember, said he wanted 
the maroon car." A thought struck her as 
the words left her. " Was he — did he — go 
to the station, do you suppose ? " 

" The maroon car was waiting outside." 

" And— he ? " 

" Was on the platform — waiting, too." 

The girl shuddered. 

" He might have travelled by my train." 

Quex Devenish nodded. 

She put out her hand, and touched his arm 
in silent sympathy. 

He forced a smile. 

" Well, thank Heaven, he didn't ! He is 
not really sane on the subject of Clones. 
Let it rest mercifully at that." 

The clocks were striking six as he left her 
at the offices of Rice, Helmesley, Drane, and 
Co. And it was precisely ten minutes past 
when she rejoined him at the corner of the 

He watched her as she came swiftly 
towards him under the lighted lamps, fleet- 
footed and radiant, a degree triumphant, 
too, at Mr. Helmesley 's approbation. She 
waved towards him a slip of paper. 

" A receipt for the emeralds ! Please take 
it to Mrs. Devenish, and tell her how glad 
I am. Mr. Helmesley is writing to her 

In her excitement, as they walked along 
the quiet street together, she slipped her 
hand through his arm. The touch set his 
blood racing. He stopped, the lamplight 
full on his face. What she saw there held 

her motionless for a heart-beat or two. 
Beyond lay the noise and clamour of a great 
city ; here they had the world to themselves.. 

" For three long years I've wanted to 
marry you," he said, quietly. " Will you 
marry me when you know me better ? " 

" How can I tell ? " 

There was the sound of tears in her voice. 
She was tired, happy, excited, and bewildered 
with the day's sensations, now the reaction 
had set in. She just wanted to put her 
head against his tweed sleeve and cry her 
heart out. 

He waited. To him she had been so much 
a part of his thoughts all these years that 
he hardly realized the turmoil of her 

" Let us be friends first," she said, in a 
moment. Out of the bewilderment came 
the knowledge that to wish to cry on a 
particular tweed shoulder was undoubtedly 
a promising sign. " And then — perhaps — 
who knows ? " 

He smiled down at her. There was no 
irony this time. He had rather a wonderful 
way of smiling, she thought, as if heart and 
soul he might devote himself to the woman 
he loved. 

Now, in reply, he took her ungloved hand, 
and stooping, bareheaded, put his lips to 
the palm. 

" For three weeks we will leave it at that* 
And I mean to hope." 

" There will be difficulties," protested 
Miss Ravenhill. 

" None — if you love me." 

Later, when she awakened suddenly in 
the night, some of the difficulties occurred to 
her, and the main one concerned itself with 
a small man, furtive-eyed, who hated her for 
what she had done. He came back to 
memory now, slinking fox-like through her 

Yet had she but known it, even as she 
awakened fully, down in the newspaper 
offices they were busy setting up in type 
the news of a serious accident to Mr. Devenish 
of Clones, through the skidding of his car, 
self-driven home in the gloaming. And the 
"Stop Press" news of the later editions 
conveyed to her, and to the world at large, 
the news of his death. 

by Google 

Original from 




The worst man in history, according to Macaulay, was Bertrand Bar&re, of the 
French Revolution. He expressed his opinion as follows : — 

Barere approached nearer than any person mentioned in history or fiction, whether man or devil, to 
the idea of consummate and universal depravity. In him the qualities which are the proper objects 
of hatred, and the qualities which are the proper objects of contempt, preserve an exquisite and 
absolute harmony. In almost every particular sort of wickedness he has had rivals. His sensuality 
was immoderate ; but this was a failing common to him with many great and amiable men. There 
have been many men as cowardly as he, some as cruel, a few as mean, a few as impudent. There may 
also have been as great liars, though we never met with them or read of them. But when we put 
everything together, sensuality, poltroonery, baseness, effrontery, mendacity, barbarity, the result is 
something which in a novel we should condemn as caricature, and to which, we venture to say. 

no parallel can be found in history. 

Was Macaulay right ? With a view to obtaining an up-to-date opinion on 
this point we put the following question to several eminent writers : " Do you 
agree with this verdict, and, if not, what name would you substitute for that of 
Barere ? " Their replies form a most interesting and valuable symposium. 


The famous actor^manager has always been interested in the subject of criminology, and is the author of 

"French Criminals of the Nineteenth Century." 

% m 

T is now generally admitted 
that Macaulay' s extravagant 
description of Barere is one 
of those rhetorical outbursts of 
denunciation with which, re- 
gardless of the strict laws of 
evidence, he was in the habit 
of overwhelming historical characters who 
incurred his displeasure. The Duke of 
Marlborough, William Perm, and in lesser 
degree Judge Jeffreys, were the victims of 
this habit. To find the really irredeemably 
bad man, without any trace of good, or 
possibility of extenuation, is not easy. There 
is a book called "The Lives of Twelve 
Bad Men," but when one comes to look at 
it in the light of the present day, the twelve 
do not seem really so very bad after all. 
There are few of them, except perhaps Titus 
Oates, for whom a word cannot be said. Judged 
by the standard of Caesar Borgia or Frederick 
the Great, two consummate rascals, James 
Maclaine and Ned Kelly seem harmless and 
honourable gentlemen, while the thief- 

taker, Jonathan Wild, merely applied to 
eighteenth-century crime the methods of 
Standard Oil. Charles Lamb had quite a 
feeling of affection for Thomas Griffiths 
Wainewright, the poisoner, and Judge Jeffreys 
received a warm letter from one of the 
Seven Bishops commending him for having 
condemned to death Algernon Sidney. But 
no word, it would seem, can be said and no 
apology uttered for Leli^vre, alias Chevallier, 
executed at Lyons in 1821. His case is 
hardly, if at all, known in England. If we are 
to look for " the worst man who ever lived/' 
Leli^vre, alias Chevallier, deserves a hearing. 
In 1820 Pierre Claude Chevallier had been 
for nine years employed in the office of the 
Prefect of the Rhone Department at Lyons. 
Of charming manners and distinguished ap- 
pearance, pale, with regular features, gentle 
blue eyes, and a magnificent head of fair hair, 
always quietly regular and punctual in his 
work, Chevallier had risen to the highest 
position but one in the financial department 
of the Prefecture. In his domestic affairs the 







same punctual regularity was apparent, but 
in a less happy fashion. In six years' time 
Che va) Her had had the misfortune to lose, 
by the cruel hand of death, a mistress, three 
wives, and two children* This singular fatality, 
however, might have escaped observation but 
for a rough attempt on the part of Chevallier 
to replace one of his lost children* On 
June 17 th, 1820, a man caught up the little 
son of a hatter in a village near Lyons and 
ran off with htm as fast as he could. The 
parents pursued the despoiler, came up with 
him, and rescued the child, on whose little 
feet the unknown man had already found 
time to put! a pair of blue stockings. In his 
pockets he was carrying other articles of 
dress in which, no doubt, he intended later to 
reclothe the child. Great was the astonish- 
ment of Lyons when this would-be kidnapper 
proved to be M. Chevallier, the respectable 
official in the Prefecture of the Department. 
Before long* however, it was realized that it 
had only required an event of this kind to 
loose many tongues till then silent, and shed 

a fatal and surprising light on the private 
history of this blond gentleman of irre- 
proachable manners. 

A brief biographical sketch of his career 
will serve to justify Chevallier s claim to be 
a very complete villain, and explain his sin- 
gular proceeding in kidnapping the hatter's 

Pierre Lelievre was born in Madrid, the 
child of well-to-do and highly respectable 
parents. Cold, deliberate, intelligent, through 
his fat her s influence he obtained a position 
in the Bank of France, In the year 18^9, 
finding his salary and his fathers allowance 
insufficient for his needs, he forged a cheque 
on the Bank of France for sixty thousand 
francs. He was arrested, but through his 
father's influence, instead of being prosecuted, 
was sent to join a colonial battalion in the 
army. As a military career seemed distasteful 
to him, he deserted the army, but, bffore 
leaving it, found and appropriated the papers 
of one Pierre Claude Chevallier, who had 
belonged to (Jit: same ba/ttalion. This Phrre 




Claude Chevallier was a native of Lyons, and it 
was as Pierre Claude Chevallier that Leli£vre 
went to Lyons and, on the strength of the 
papers which he brought with him, obtained, 
as Chevallier, a place in the Prefecture of the 

In 1 81 2 Chevallier, as we will now call him, 
was joined at Lyons by his mistress, a young 
and beautiful Dutch girl whom he had met 
previously in Belgium. Shortly after his 
mistress came to live with him she was 
seized with violent inflammation of the 
stomach, accompanied by extreme suffering. 
A doctor was called in. Finding that the 
remedies he prescribed did the patient no 
good, he asked Chevallier whether she was 
in the habit of eating or drinking something 
which aggravated her disease. Chevallier 
replied that she was in the habit of drinking 
brandy, and that he could not stop her 
because she got it while he was away from 
home. When the doctor expostulated with his 
patient on this unfortunate habit, she denied 
the charge and said that it was a very long time 
since she had drunk any brandy. She died. 

Shortly after her death Chevallier married 
his first wife, a strong, healthy young woman. 
She gave birth to a child, but about that time 
both she and the child were attacked by a 
complaint very similar to that which had carried 
off Chevallier' s mistress. The -child died, and a 
few days later, in the presence of her relations, 
Mme. Chevallier died too. The final scene 
was distressing. She had just taken a glass 
of wine, when she was seized with the most 
violent convulsions, falling from her bed on 
to the floor. In this agony she expired. 
Chevallier, who was present, immediately 
threw away the remainder of the wine left in 
her glass, took off the rings and ear-rings of the 
dead woman, and then sat down and consoled 
himtelf by reading Thomas k Kempis's 
" Imitation of Christ." 

In 1816 Chevallier married his second wife. 
A year later, after giving birth to a son, the 
second Mme. Chevallier died with the same 
distressing symptoms that had afflicted the 
two other ladies whom Chevallier had honoured 
with his affection. The little son was put out 
to nurse. A year later Chevallier took the 
child away from the good people in 
whose charge he had been left, and said that 
he was taking him to live with some aunts. 
At the time he took him away the little boy 
was wearing a pair of blue stockings. This 
was in the early days of August, 181 9. About 
the same time a woman living in a village 
near Lyons, on the banks of the Rhone, took 
out of the water the body of a pretty little 

blond boy with blue eyes some two and 
a half to three years old. Its little shirt was 
marked with the letter C, and it was wearing 
a pair of blue stockings. 

In June, 1818, Chevallier married his third 
wife. After giving birth to a child, this 
lady passed away in dreadful convulsions 
similar to those which had attacked Cheval- 
liers other wives. Immediately before her 
death Chevallier had given her some coffee 
to drink. The nurse, who suspected that 
there was something wrong, tasted the coffee 
and found it peculiarly bitter. When she 
told Chevallier that he had given his wife 
something which had not been ordered for 
her by the doctor, he said that he was giving 
her a medicine that would bring on a crisis 
in her disease and either kill or cure her. In a 
very few moments it brought about the former 
of these results. A strong suspicion that 
Chevallier had poisoned his wife was aroused 
over this case, but the family of the dead 
woman, for the sake of the future of the 
child, refused to take any steps against him. 

A doctor who had been called in by 
the family of the third Mme. Chevallier had 
not hesitated to accuse Chevallier of the 
murder of his wife. He was accosted one 
night by an unknown man, who said to 
him : " Don't dare to speak of the Chevallier 
case or you will have to answer to me." 
Two months later the doctor was roused 
one night by a man knocking at his door and 
asking him to go at once to see a patient of 
his who lived some distance from Lyons. 
Fortunately, the doctor had agreed with his 
patient that in the event of sudden illness 
during the night he should receive a letter 
from himself or his wife, asking, him to come. 
The doctor asked the unknown for the letter, 
to which he replied that the family were so 
upset that they must have forgotten to write 
it. The doctor, who distrusted the ragged 
and untidy appearance of the messenger, re- 
fused to accompany him. Next day he found 
that his patient was perfectly well and had 
sent him no message of any kind. 

In spite of these highly suspicious cir- 
cumstances and the scandal to which they 
had given rise, Chevallier was successful in 
marrying a fourth wife. In the meantime, 
the relatives of the second wife had begun 
to take an awkward interest in the where- 
abouts of her little boy, who according to 
Chevallier was living with some aunts. It was 
becoming necessary for Chevallier to produce 
the child. This he was unable to do, as he 
had drowned it in the Rhone. It was his> 
endeavour to fmd a substitute that drove 




him to make the daring attempt to kidnap the 
little boy of the village hatter. The blue 
stockings which he had slipped on to his 
feet, and the other articles of clothing which 
he was carrying in his pockets, were all de- 
signed to deceive his late wife's relatives into 
the belief that the hatter's child was no other 
than her little son. 

Chevallier was convicted of the murder 
of his son and his third wife, condemned to 
death, and executed. After his conviction 
he maintained, with pious unction, his com- 
plete innocence. He received his visitors 
Bible in hand, compared his sufferings with 
those of Christ, and expressed his confidence 
that should he die on the scaffold the angels 
would take him into their care. 

The motives of this Tartuffe among criminals 
were reasonable enough. He got rid of his 
mistress that he might enter the married 
state ; possibly, too, she was the repository 
of dangerous secrets. All Chevallier's con- 
tracts of marriage provided that, in the event 
of the death of husband or wife, his or her 
property went to the survivor. Add to this 
the desire for change, and the undoubted 
pleasure that some natures derive from secret 
poisoning, and we have explanation enough 
of Chevallier' s strange career. The Avocat- 
General said, with justice, of Chevallier : 
" It would seem as if he had been sent 
into this world in order to extend into the 
nineteenth century the full limits of human 




I do not know that I ever take Macaulay's 
diatribes at their face value. He was very 
often too much of a rhetorician and let his 
pen run away with him. Bar£re may be an 
infinite scoundrel, as he was certainly an 
unpleasant fellow, but I dare say he will pre- 
sently be whitewashed. It must not be 
forgotten that the evidence against most of 
the actors in the Revolution comes from 
bitter enemies or rivals, and is probably in 
great part malicious rumour. I think it 
possible that Macaulay, when he wrote his 
" History of England," and let himself loose 
on Judge Jeffreys and Colonel Kirke, was 
quite capable of saying that his earlier example 
of depravity, Bar6re, was an angel of light, or 
at least one of the elect, compared with those 
repellent figures of Monmouth's rebellion. 
If he had said so I do not know that I should 
have disagreed with him, for to my mind there 
is no real sin but cruelty. All other crimes do 
not come under the heading of sin. The 
Spaniards, with a fine appreciation of the 
weakness of humanity, say, " Peceado de 
came non e peceado." 

I have seen no great evidence of Bardre's 
being peculiarly a monster of cruelty among 
the cruel, though Carlyle has no good word 
to say of him. The infamous hero of the 
Noyades must surely have surpassed him in 
that regard. The truth is that there is 
no such thing as one supremely bad man who 
should be ranked chief in the infernal hier- 
archy of history. There are too many possible 
candidates for any student of humanity to 

decide between them. We may certainly reject 
many of the examples always given us, such 
as Nero, for instance, whom I cannot help 
thinking has been much maligned by Sue- 
tonius and Tacitus. That Roman emperor 
was obviously an artistic madman who, in 
the strict seclusion of a narrow studio and 
our commercial system, might have done 
better sculpture, say, than most who receive 
honour at the Royal Academy. He might, 
indeed, have died of suffocation on the 
council of that body, saying, sadly, " Qualis 
artijex pereo ! " 

Rome and mediaeval Italy have offered 
more examples of the only thing I deem 
peculiarly wicked than most other nations. 
One of the most interesting wicked figures 
in Italian history is Sigismondo of the 
Malatesta, who ruled in Rimini. Things are 
related of him that can barely be printed, and 
yet, for all that, he was a wonderful figure, 
a bright and shining light of the Renaissance, 
to whose genius the city of Rimini owed much. 
He was learned, a skilful soldier, and a 
great military engineer. He patronized art 
and letters and architecture. Indeed, he 
practically built the remarkable church of 
St. Francis at Rimini, for he seems to have 
been something of an architect, with a rare 
sense of decoration. To me he seems the more 
evil because he possessed these intellectual and 
artistic qualities. But he was of an absolute 
and remorseless dissoluteness, a poisoner and 
yet a poet, and a true and lifelong lover of 
Isotta degli Atti, a very remarkable woman, 




who j of course , was not his wife. This passion 
lasted till his death, though his unregulated 
passions often led him to murder and to one 
great unexampled outrage , which cannot he 
told outside a medical book on mental diseases. 
Later, he strangled his wife, Polissena, who 
was the daughter of the great condoniere, 
Francesco Sforza. After a long and strange 
career he was driven to make submission to 
his old enemy the Pope. He was accused of 
every crime under the sun. It is said that 
after long years he even caught and tortured 
his old tutor for punishments that he had 
received as a 
boy* Besides 
P o 1 i s s e n a, he 
killed two other 

In his absence 
he w a S con- 
demned at Rome 
to be burnt alive 
as a heretic. The 
sentence was 
easier to pass than 
to execute. It is 
true that such a 
verdict is little or 
nothing against 
him, for these 
things were 
engineered b y 
among whom the 
Pope and the 
College of Cardi- 
nals were chief. 
But there is other 
evidence than 
that of such re- 
ligious witnesses. 
Luck went 
against him after 
his con dem- 
nation j and pre- 
sently he had 
to him but his 

own city of Rimini. It is said that then 
he determined to assassinate the Pope, and 
ivent to the Vatican for that purpose with a 
dagger, but found his purpose impossible of 
achievement owing to the Pope's preparations, 
After that he actually entered the Pontiff's 
service, and soon afterwards died in his own 
city, leaving Isotta and her son to rule Rimini, 
till one of his illegitimate sons dispossessed 
them of power. Those who desire to know 
more of this evil genius, for such he seems 

to have been, may read Yriarte's book on the 
Malatesta and Rimini, But even now there 
is a chance for biographers to write on him 
in English, 

Strange and evil as were the ways of those 
who tried to build stable foundations for power 
in the quicksands of mediaeval Italy, they do 
not, however, come up to one dreadful and 
peculiar figure of horror who flourished 
during the same period in the even wilder 
country of Wal lochia. This was Vlad IV.j 
the son of a previous Voivode of Wallachia. 
He was set up in this position by the Sultan 

Murad, and, hav- 
ing lived a Jong 
time in Turkey, 
he seems to have 
improved there 
upon the native 
ferocity *of his 
inherited dispo- 
sition. In the 
region of Wal- 
1 a c h i a he is 
known to this 
day as "Draeul," 
or " the dragon/' 
a figure to make 
children fear and 
those who love 
mankind even yet 
tremble. He was 
also called Vlad 
the Impaler, from 
the joy he took 
in watching the 
torments of 
those on whom 
he inflicted the 
favourite and 
lingering torture 
of impalement. 
He quarrelled, as 
might have been 
expected, with 
his former patron, 
the Sultan, and 
when Murad sent 
an envoy, who was the Pasha of Widdin, to 
depose him, Vlad impaled the pasha and 
defied the Sultan. It is said he impaled ten 
thousand people, men, women, and children, at 
one single time. There are hideous records of 
his having set up, in the midst of his moaning 
victims, banqueting tables at which he feasted 
with his favourites and vilest instruments. 
When the Sultan at last invaded Wallachia 
he is said to have had to march through a 
ghastly forest of paies. each of which pinned 




its dead or dying victim to the earth. If 
there is in history a more monstrous figure 
I have yet to learn where his story can be 
found. Certainly, after him the deeds of 
Alva, or even those of Geronimo, the half- 

breed Apache, who only a few years ago 
committed unspeakable cruelties in Arizona, 
fade to nothingness. And as for the object 
of Macaulay's rhetorical venom, he becomes 
in comparison a light to follow. 


In the days when Thomas Babington 
Macaulay shed the light of his intelligence 
upon the national wisdom assembled at 
Westminster, it is on record that a famous 
statesman remarked, " I wish I could be 
as cocksure about any one thing as Tom 
Macaulay is about everything." 

Lord Macaulay, in his essay from which 
the passage with regard to Bar£re is taken, 
evidently feels cocksure that Bar&re was not 
only a villain of the deepest dye, but abso- 
lutely unparalleled in his villainy. The great 
historian contends that in variegated villainy 
Bar£re was, to use an up-to-date collo- 
quialism, " the limit." 

But was he ? Is it possible to submit to a 
jury of experts a rascal whose record, beating 
that of Bar£re, would entitle him to the 
disgraceful distinction of being the worst 
man in the world ? 

I venture humbly to submit a candidate for 
that distinction. 

Bar£re at least filled a place in history. 
His poltroonery, his baseness, his mendacity, 
and his barbarity had for their background 
a great national crisis, a vast social upheaval. 

The scoundrel whose claims I would urge 
practised his poltroonery, his baseness, his 
mendacity, and his barbarity in a peaceful 
domestic interior. He was not cast upon 
the shores of crime by the bloody waves of 
revolution. No wild war of class upon class 
inspired his passion for power or gave him 
infinite opportunities of evildoing. 

The villain whom I put forward to snatch 
the laurels from the brow of Bar£re was a fop, 
an oiled and scented voluptuary, an art 
critic, a collector of rare glass, old china, and 
old prints. 

His literary friend was Lamb. His artist 
friends were Fuseli, Stothard, Westall, and 
Lawrence. Among the guests whom he 
gathered together at his delightful dinner 
parties were Sir Wentworth Dilke, the founder 
of the AtheruBum ; Mr. Serjeant Talfourd ; 
Dr. Maginn ; Mr. John Forster, the friend of 
Charles Dickens ; and Macready, the actor. 

He adorned the world of letters as Janus 

Digitized by LiOOglC 

Weathercock, and his name was Thomas 
Griffiths Wainewright. 

Wainewright was contemporary with Haz- 
litt, Barry Cornwall, Charles Lamb, and 
Thomas Hood, upon the London Magazine. 
Here is a revelation of the man in his work : — 

" We immersed a well-seasoned prime pen 
into our silver inkstand three times, shaking 
off the loose ink again lingeringly, while, 
holding the print fast in our left hand, we 
perused it with half-shut eyes, dallying 
awhile with our delight. Fast and faster 
came the tingling impetus, and this running 
like quicksilver from our sensorium to our 
pen, we gave the latter one conclusive dip, 
after which we rapidly dashed off the following 
description coulcur dc rose" 

Did Bar£re, the " Anacreon of the Guillo- 
tine," ever equal this ? 

This is the atmosphere in which Wainewright 
conceived and carried out a series of infamous 
crimes with a meanness, a baseness, and a 
barbarity that would have made five out of the 
six worst men in the world blush. 

Wainewright's grandfather, Dr. Griffiths, 
the bookseller, who founded the Monthly 
Review and started an evening paper, accumu- 
lated a fortune and died at a ripe old age, 
leaving his grandson the income of a capital 
sum of five thousand pounds invested in the 
New Four per Cents. Janus promptly 
forged the signature of the four trustees 
in whose name the five thousand was in- 
vested, and the forgery authorized the Bank of 
England to pay the capital sum over to him. 
He rapidly got rid of the money in extra- 
vagant living and was sold up, and then a kind 
uncle invited Janus and his wife to stay with 
him at Linden House, Turnham Green. 

Wainewright showed his appreciation of 
his uncle's generosity by poisoning him and 
inheriting his property. 

When this second fortune was very nearly 
exhausted the dandy art critic invited Mrs. 
Abercrombie, the twice widowed mother of 
his wife, and his wife's two stepsisters, Helen 
and Madeleine Abercrombie, to stay with 
them. The gay man of fashion, whom 





Charles Lamb culled 'kind, light-hearted 
Janus/* promptly poisoned his mother-in-law. 
He had a ring in which he always carried 
strychnine. He pressed the contents of this 
ring into some toffee given to Mrs. Aber- 
crombie. It was necessary that she should 
die in order that Janus should be left the 
guardian of the girls. 

Within a very short time Janus u pressed 
the ring " T for the benefit of the beautiful 
Helen , the girl whose picture he had executed 
in crayons — -the very interesting portrait 
which is herewith reproduced. 

After her death it was discovered that her 
life was insured for eighteen thousand pounds, 
and that her will left her property to her sister 
and appointed Janus the executor. But two 
of the policies were assigned to Janus himself. 

The insurance companies were not happy 
over this new claim, and declined to pay. 
Janus threatened legal proceedings, but 
knowing that it would be a long time before 
the case could come on he put his wife and 
Madeleine into lodgings in Fimlico, and set 
out to travel in France. 

In Boulogne he met a gentleman from 

Norfolk who had a pretty daughter with him. 
Janus in some way induced this gentleman to 
insure his life for three thousand pounds, and 
then one evening invited his new friend to 
take coffee with him. Again Janus pressed 
the ring t The gentleman drank the coffee 
and died in agony, and the insurance money 
was paid over to his daughter. 

Janus promptly majde love to the daughter 
and induced her to accompany him on his 
travels as his wife. In the meantime the forgery 
which had enabled him to get the five thou 
sand pounds from the Bank ot England was 
discovered, and the matter was communicated 
to the police. Janus, ignorant of this, came 
back to London , and in the false name he had 
assumed put up with the lady who accom- 
panied him at an hotel in Covent Garden. 
Forester, the Bow Street runner, passing 
along Covent Garden, saw a gentleman looking 
out of one of the hotel windows, recognized 
Wain ew right, and arrested him. 

There was some difficulty about the in- 
surance case and the death of Helen AIht- 
crombie, so it was decided to proceed on the 
forgery case, and Janus was duly convicted 




and sent out as a convict to Van Diemen's 

This mean, base, cowardly scoundrel had 
kept a diary of his crimes, and this diary had 
fallen into the hands of the authorities. It 
was a demoniacal document, and contained 
the details of his crimes set forth, as the best 
historian of his career has told us, " with a 
voluptuous cruelty and a loathsome exaltation 
which proclaimed him to be a masterpiece 
of evil." 

He excused himself for the murder of 
Helen Abercrombie on the plea that her 
ankles were thick. 

In Van Diemen's Land, after serving a 
certain portion of his sentence, he was sent 
to the hospital in Hobart Town. 

Released from the hospital, he set up as a 
portrait-painter and led the life of a dissolute 

► and degraded scoundrel. He behaved foully 
to everyone who befriended him, and in his 
revenge he was a malignant fiend. 

When he was in the hospital a convict 
against whom he had a grudge lay dying in an 
adjacent bed. When the man was almost at 
his last gasp Janus went to the bedside and 
hissed in the dying man's ear, " You are a 
dying man. In four-and-twenty hours your 
soul will be in hell and my arms will be up 
to that " — touching his elbow — " in your 
body, dissecting you." 

I agree with the writer who, when recording 
the villain's death, said that no blacker soul 
ever left a human body. 

I doubt if a viler miscreant than Thomas 
Griffiths Wainewright ever lived. I cannot, 
with all deference to Macaulay, accept Bar£re 
even as his equal. 




Perhaps it is because of Carlyle's estimate 
that the iniquities of Barire do not move 
some of us as Macaulay would have had us 
moved. Merrier described him as the greatest 
liar in history, and assuredly in the matter of 
the Vengeur he gave Munchausen a start 
and a beating. But he was a laughing, 
plausible rogue, and we do not associate such 
qualities with the unredeemed ferocity of 
other monsters. 

Many of the world's greatest criminals 
undoubtedly have been homicidal maniacs. 
Nero was one. The Kaiser is another, as 
the French have taught us since the beginning 
of the war. In private life here, a homicidal 
maniac kills his wife and children and is sent 
to Broadmoor. When he is on a throne he 
may kill millions and still find millions to 
bend the knee to him. His crimes are not 
subject to authority. He murders as he 

I have always thought the worst man in 
history was Ferdinando Alvarez de Toledo, 
Duke of Alva, though his master, Philip of 
Spain, ran him close in infamy. When Alva 
left the Netherlands in 1573, he boasted that he 
had condemned eighteen thousand six hundred 
people to be executed, while, as a writer says, 
" the number of those whom he had caused 
to perish by battle, starvation, siege, and 
massacre could not be estimated." The vices 
which he had were " few but colossal." He 
Dossessed no virtues. As a homicide he 

Digitized by Kjm\ 

rivalled the most savage beast of the field. 
He was " tall, thin, erect, with a small head 
and a long face, a lean yellow cheek, twinkling 
eyes, a dust-coloured complexion, black brist- 
ling hair, and long sable silvered beard. 
This man taught his soldiers that for their 
pleasure they should roast the people of the 
Low Countries over slow fires, and after he 
had been in the Netherlands a few years it 
was said that there were hardly ropes left 
with which to strangle the thousands yet to 
be killed. 

Though Alva's mission was fundamentally 
political, he had a doughty lieutenant in 
Peter Titelman, his inquisitor. Peter invented 
the punishment of the bee-sting. He would 
catch an heretical Netherlander and have him 
flayed to the waist. Then he would cover him 
with bees to be stung to death. A weaver 
of Tournay had his leg and hand twisted off 
with red-hot irons by Alva's order, and then, 
his arms and legs being bound behind him, 
he was hung over a slow fire in the market- 
place and roasted for hours. 

There are prints extant of Alva's occupation 
of Brussels which are matchless in their 
suggestion of horror. I was looking at one 
of them but recently. It depicted a great 
market-place with gibbets everywhere. In 
one corner a company of soldiers was shown 
carrying off three Flemish girls. There were 
braziers of live coals under every gibbet, 
and all the tortured hung head downwards. 





^ith their faces almost in the flames. The 
soldiers about them were breaking their 
limbs with flaming pincers or searing them 
with hot irons, This was a contemporary 
print, and every record bears witness to its 
accuracy. The glow of the fires in every 
market-place in the Netherlands hardly 
ceased during Alva's occupation. The man 
cried for blood as a beast roars for prey. 

Of the monsters of history, few matched 
this ruffian. It is true that Tigellinus 
invented horrors for Nero, and that for sheer 
cruelty nothing could have matched the 
terrors of the amphitheatre when the lions 
had been loosed upon the Christians. Men 
wagered as to w he t her lions or tigers were 
the better at " tearing " — but Nero was a 
madman, and died as such, Titus Gates 
has been named, but that master liar achieved, 
alter all, but little \ and Caligula was another 
of the homicidal maniacs. Greater than 
these in human wickedness was the Borgia 
T/ho mocked his great office and profaned the 
holy places. None of these, however, quite 
had the quality of Alva, For that man was 

sane, and yet he tore two nations to pieces. , 
Some of the greatest cruelties undoubtedly 
have gone unsung. Consider the slave trade — 
the infamies of those voyages under closed 
hatches, the cease leas lashings of bare hacks, 
wives torn from husbands, lovers from 
mistresses I Humanity never cut so poor 
a figure, for avarice was the only impulse. 
Vet a nation was rent asunder, and brother 
shed the blood of brother before justice could 
be done. 

And look now at Armenia and the slaughter 
of eight hundred thousand people. Was 
not Enver Bey responsible for this, and is it 
not the greatest crime in history ? Read the 
accounts of what this people has suffered 
that Enver may continue to draw money from 
his German masters. Macau lay would set m 
to desire a general all-round record of mis- 
doing for his worst man, but the worst man, 
surely, is he who has done the greatest mis- 
chief to the human race ; and if that be the 
criterion, this twentieth century, with its 
Kaisers, its Ferdinands, its En vers, and 
kindred assassins, should be proud indeed. 

(The ofnnions of other eminent miters will apptmiftdfiffiSftth) 





Illustrated by JVill Owen. 

After some twenty-five years of routine life as a bank clerk, Carstairs finds himself, through the unexpected 
legacy of an uncle in Australia, the possessor of an income of about thirty thousand pounds a year. He 
breaks the news to his friend and fellow-clerk, William Pope, by making him his secretary, and the story 
opens with the two friends starting their new life of leisure. Naturally they make many fresh acquaintances, 
among whom are Jack Knight and Fred Peplow, the former of whom induces Carstairs to motor down into 
Hampshire to look over an Elizabethan house which he describes as an ideal home for a man of wealth. 

HE meal at the White Hart 
was so good that Carstairs 
had a shrewd suspicion that 
it had been ordered before- 
hand by the enterprising 
Knight. Mr. Pope rose from 
the table with a sigh, and, 
throwing the stub of his cigar into the grate, 
drew an arm-chair on to the hearth-mg and 
surveyed his friends with misty eyes. Then, 
to Knight's indignation, he drew a large silk- 
handkerchief from his pocket and, placing it 
over his face, composed himself to slumber. 
44 Is he ill ? " inquired Knight. " I don't 
like his breathing. There's a croupy sound 
about it that would make me uneasy if I 
were his mother ! " 

The lips below the handkerchief parted, 
and then, apparently thinking better of it, 
shut again with a snap. 

44 Give him half an hour," said Carstairs. 
" Id give him five years if I could, ,, said 
Knight, fervently, " but, unfortunately, time 
won't wait. It's twenty past two now r , and 
Hawker will be at the house at half-past." 
44 Hawker ! " repeated Carstairs. 
44 The agent," explained Mr. Knight. " I 
didn't w r ant you to have to come down twice 
over this affair, so I wired to him to meet 

" Jack thinks of everything," said Mr. 
Peplow, turning to Carstairs. 

44 Did he think of your engagement ? " 
said Pope, sitting up suddenly and turning 
to Mr. Peplow. " I mean, did he contrive 
it to suit his own ends in any way ? " 

Copyright, 1916, 

" Certainly not," said Peplow, blushing. 
" It's — it's a case of mutual esteem. Besides, 
we are not engaged. We may be in time. 
It's only a hope with me at present. It's — " 

44 Don't tie yourself in knots, Freddie," said 
Knight, kindly. " He's not your father; 
and there'll be plenty of other people to 
explain to. Save yourself up for them. 
All this is sour grapes to Pope. The only 
time a girl ever smiled at him was when he 
slipped on a banana-skin. Are we all 
ready, Carstairs ? " 

A little over five minutes in the car brought 
them to the lodge-gates, where a man in a 
blue-baize apron, touching his cap as they 
turned in, followed them up the drive on 
foot. The road was a winding one, and 
when the house suddenly burst into view, 
Carstairs was unable to repress an exclamation. 

44 Ripping, isn't it ? " said the gratified 
Knight. 4t Don't let him look so pleased, 
Pope ; Hawker is a hard nut to crack." 

Mr. Hawker, a wiry figure in a bowler hat 
and mustard-coloured gaiters, came forward 
to meet them as the car stopped. A pleasant- 
faced man, but with a glint in his eye that 
put all Mr. Pope's faculties on the alert. 

44 Good job Carstairs has got you to look 
after him," murmured Knight in his ear as 
they dismounted. 

Mr. Pope grinned, and endeavoured, but in 
vain, to throw off the arm linked in his. He 
even went so far as to call the owner a serpent, 
but Mr. Knight, who was at the moment 
introducing Mr. Carstairs, paid no heed. 

It was a beautiful house, and Carstairs, to 
his secretary's horror, promptly said so. 




In these circumstances there was nothing 
for Mr. Pope to do but, to call attention to 
the time-worn brickwork. . He also pointed 
out that one of the gables was a little bit 
out of plumb. 

44 Very nice to look at, of course/' he said, 
shaking his head, as they passed slowly 
along the terrace. " I remember once beirtg 
much impressed by the ruins of an old castle 
in Scotland.'' 

44 Ah, if you want ruins," said Mr. Hawker, 
" I'm afraid you will be ^disappointed here. 
The house is in a splendid state of 
preservation." , fc 

" Any ghosts ? " inquired Pope. 

Mr. Hawker hesitated ; some people like 
ghosts, others have an insurmountable ob- 
jection to them. 

" It looks too comfortable for a ghost," 
he said, with a laugh. " Do you believe in 
them ? " 

" Certainly not," said Pope, disdainfully. 

" There is no ghost here," said Hawker, 
promptly. iS Shall we go inside now, while 
the light is good ? " 

He led the way in, and left the old, oak- 
panelled hall, with its huge, open fireplace, 
to speak for itself. A wood fire crackled 
and blazed on the hearth. 

44 I thought it would look comfortable," 
said Mr. Hawker. 

Mr. Pope, with his back to the blaze, 
nodded benignly. Then he intercepted a 
fAint grin passing from Mr. Knight to Mr. 

44 You thought so too, Knight ? " he said, 

44 I think so," corrected the young man 
in a surprised voice. " But, my dear Pope, 
think of this hall furnished ! Old chests, 
old chairs — not too old to be comfortable — 
Persian rugs, drinks, cigars " 

44 Draughts," interposed Mr. Pope. 

44 Fresh air," said Knight. 44 Come along, 
there's a lot to see. And after the house 
there is the glass, and the stables, and the 

They wandered through the house, .Mr. 
Knight hastily furnishing each room in a few 
well-chosen words, as they inspected it. A 
suite of three rooms with a magnificent view 
he allotted to Mr. Pope. He laid stress on 
the fact that the principal one contained a 
fireplace big enough to roast an ox. 

44 It's a nice house," said Carstairs to him, 
as they all trooped downstairs again. 44 Yes, 
all right; I have admired the staircase once 
— and if you will give me your word of 
honour never to visit me or worrv me with 

your matrimonial projects, I might think of 
taking it." 

44 I'll promise never to come unless I am 
asked," said the young man, stiffly. 

44 I'm afraid that's no good," said Carstairs, 
smiling. u You must promise not to come 
when you are asked." » 

Mr. Knight's face relaxed. i4 You're a 
good sort, Carstairs," he said, blithely. y " Bit 
too fond of rotting ; but we can't all be per- 
fect. Pope must have got a soft spot in his 
heart for me too. He said the other day that 
he wished he had been my father." 

The air struck chill and the light was fading 
as they got outside. It was damp under- 
foot, and the much-vaunted lake looked 
drear and cold. Effects on the water, pointed 
out by Messrs. Hawker and Knight, only 
elicited a shiver from Mr. Pope. 

" Most depressing," he declared. 44 Let's 
get back and have some tea. We shall be 
frozen getting back to town." 

He turned and led the way to the car, 
while the lodge-keeper, who had been hovering 
near the party, touched his cap to Carstairs, 
and asked permission to favour him with a 
few biographical details concerning the best 
man he ever knew. It was an inspiring 
theme, but the party waiting in the car 
began to murmur at the length of it. He 
tuVned away with a smile at last and moved 
off with a springy step. 

" Want the job ? " inquired Knight, as 
Carstairs took a seat beside him. 

Carstairs nodded. 

44 What did you tell him ? " inquired 
the other, as the car whirled down the 

44 Told him ' Yes/ of course," said Carstairs. 
44 Poor chap, he has been in a state of anxiety 
for nine months. He's been here seventeen 
years. What are you laughing at ? " 

44 Nothing," said -Knight. 4t It wasn't a 
laugh ; it was a gratified smile at hearing 
you have decided to take the place." 

44 Subject to coming to terms, yes," said 
Carstairs. 44 But that is Pope's job. Pope 
versus Hawker. You were quite right, 
Knight ; it's a beautiful place, and I'm glad 1 
came to see it." 

44 Few men would admit themselves to 
have been in the wrong as freely as you do," 
said Knight, gravely. 44 Freddie ! " 

44 Halloa!" said Mr. Peplow. 

44 He's hooked ! " 

Mr. Peplow started, and then turned to 
Mr. Carstairs with a glance of protest at his 
friend's rudeness. 

"That's all right," said Knight. "You 

iversity of Michigan 




nebcin" t look like a dying duck in a thunder- 
storm. Remember what you said al>out him 
last night." 

'• I ? " stammered the distressed Peplow, 
" I assure you, Mr. Carstairs - ,? 

" He's always like that/' said" Knight, 
calmly ; k+ he lets me fight his battles for 
him, and then tries to pass by on the other 
side. Fortunately, my character is strong 
enough for both. Here we are 3 and now for 
a cup of Pope- reviving tea. Hot and strong, 
with two lumps of sugar/' 

Mr. Pope subsided into his easy-chair with 
a sigh of relief and extended his hands to the 

plenty of money. Have you finished, Fred- 
die ? he inquired, with a significant glance ; 
11 l>ecause if .so you had better come down and 
see the landlord about that dog you were 
talking about." 

Mr. Peplow, exhibiting more confusion 
than the occasion seemed to warrant, arose f 
and, with a glance at Carstairs, followed his 
friend out of the room. Mr. Pope, declining 
another t up of tea, lit a cigarette and smoked 
on in silence, 

' Nice boys/ 1 said Carstairs, breaking a 
long silence. 

Pope grunted, l * Might be worse," he said 





* iWl\ 




blaze. " Tea appeared on the table , but he 
refused to move, and taking cup after cup 
in his cosy corner gradually thawed into a 
heavy geniality, He even joined in the chorus 
of praise of the house, comparing it favourably 
with others of three inches by two that he had 
seen in advertisements. In reply to a chal- 
lenge of Knight's he declared himself a match 
for Hawker any day. 

" So long as you fix it up 1 don't mind who 
wins/' said Knight, ** CarstairjQffl Igot 

at last. M Pity Knight couldn't have had the 
advantages of a training at the bank. If he 
had gone in, say at eighteen, under me, he 
would have been a different man altogether." 

Carstairs agreed, and drawing his chair up 
sat gazing at the fire, Pope finished his cigar- 
ette, and throwing the stub into the grate 
closed his eyes and fell into a light doze. 

He awoke after some time, and, rubbing his 

eyes, sat up 

'^iftfelTT* MICHIGAN 

-i,_ a* his friuiid. Then he 


J 5i 

" Good gracious ! " he said, with a start. 
(i It's time we were off. Where are those 

Carstairs shook his head. " Still discussing 
the dog, I suppose," he said. 

4 ' I'll go and hurry them up," said Pope. . 
He went heavily downstairs, to reappear 
in five minutes' time with the landlord. 

4t They didn't say anything to me about a 
dog," said the latter. il They went out about 
half an hour ago, and they said if anybody 
asked for them they had gone out to look for 
the moon." * 

44 Moon ! " repeated Mr. Pope, sharply. 
" But there is no moon." 

•' Just what I told 'em," said the landlord. 
" And Mr. Knight said no, he knew that, 
and they were going out to see what had 
become of it." 

Carstairs coughed ano looked at Pope. 
" It would serve 'em right — — " he began, 

"Eh? " said Pope. 

Their eyes met, and the hard lines in 
Pope's face melted into a huge grin. 

" Let me have my car as soon as possible," 
said Carstairs, turning to the landlord ; " and 
when those two gentlemen ' come back tell 
them we couldn't wait." 

" Tell 'em we have ' shot the moon/ " 
"added Pope, with a noisy chuckle. " Hurry 
up ! " 

He clapped Carstairs on the shoulder as 
the landlord withdrew, and both gentlemen, 
in a state of glee somewhat unsuited to their 
years, proceeded to array themselves for the 
journey. Pope held his friends coat for 
him and placed it almost tenderly about his 
shoulders. Mr. Carstairs, after Pope had 
wound a huge muffler about his throat, 
thoughtfully pulled up his coat-collar for 

" I hope the landlord won't forget that 
bit about * shooting the moon,' " said Pope, 
as they almost danced downstairs. 44 I 
should like to see Knight's face ; but you 
can't have everything." 

They stopped in front of the cosy bar, and 

at Pope's suggestion ordered a couple of 

glasses of cherry brandy to keep out the cold. 

44 Car ready ? " he inquired, as the landlord 

came in from the back. 

" Can't find the chauffeur, sir," said the 
landlord. " He's nowhere on the premises, 
but I've sent the ostler up the street to look 
for him." 

Mr. Pope, with his glass midway to his 
mouth, turned pale and put it down on the 
counter again, while the landlord turned to 

renew the search — apparently in the coal- 
shed. Mr. Carstairs emptied his glass and 
both gentlemen, with lagging steps, ascended 
the stairs again. 

44 Youth must be served," quoted Car- 
stairs, as he proceeded to unwrap himself. 

44 I wish I had the serving of him,'* grunted 
the other. " Of all the young jacka- 
napes " 

He turned away as he saw Carstairs' lips 
twitch, and after a hopeless attempt to 
maintain his dignity began to laugh too. 
Restored to good-humour, he poked the fire 
and, putting his feet on the fender, sat down 
to wait. 

Half an hour later a murmur of voices 
below announced the return of the truants. 
The landlord's voice was hearfl above the 
others, then a smothered laugh, apparently 
from Mr. Knight, and a startled "H'sh/" 
which the reddening Pope rightly attributed 
to Mr. Peplow. 

" Landlord's given them your message," 
said Carstairs. 

41 Hope we haven't kept you waiting ? " 
said Knight, politely, as he entered the room, 
followed by a shadowy Peplow. 

44 We have been waiting an hour and a 
half," said Carstairs. 

44 Sorry," said Knight. " Didn't seem 
more than five minutes to us, did it, 
Freddie ? " 

44 I — I thought we had been about a 
quarter of an hour," said Mr. Peplow, " or 
perhaps twenty minutes." 

Mr. Knight looked from Carstairs to Pope 
and from Pope to Carstairs. 

44 Sorry," he said again, with dignity, 
44 but you know our object in, coming down 
here, Carstairs, and, having missed the 
afternoon looking after your business, we 
thought we might take ten minutes for our 

Carstairs looked helplessly at Pope. " My 
business ? " he said at last. 

44 Helping you to choose a house," explained 

44 And what did you take Biggs away with 
you for ? " demanded Carstairs. 

44 Out of deference to your prejudices," said 
Knight, promptly. 44 Freddie thought " 

" I didn't," interrupted Mr. Peplow, 
• hastily. 

44 Freddie thought," repeated Mr. Knight, 
firmly, l4 that you and Pope, being mid- 
Victorians, would have old-fashioned notions 
about that sort of thing, so we took Biggs to 
chaperon us, and, in. justice to him, 1 must 

say t^v^pft tyFWFfmr th us to take 



something hack to you. He 
has just us keel me what it 

ki What was it ? '' inquired 
Carstairs, staring. 

11 A report of our im- 
m a c u 1 a t e behaviour," said 
Knight, 'Lady Pen rose' s 
maid was with them, and he 
kept her company in her 

*■ Don't listen to him/ 1 said 
Pope j rising and picking up his 

u Besides, it was a pre- 
cautionary measure/' a el d e d 

Pope is t opped with one arm 
in a sleeve and stared at him. 

u Neither of y o li b e i n g 
able to drive/' explained 
Knight, with an abominable 

The straxd magazise. 








Mr. Hawkek, in a moment 
of frankness caused by des- 
pondency, admitted that he 
had met his match in Mn 
Pope ; after which the negotia- 
tions for the tenancy of Bur- 
stead Place progressed with 
great smoothness, The law- 
yers on both sides raised 
various points, but nothing 
that consultations and letters 
could not adjust to the satis- 
faction of all concerned. In 
the exercise of his duties Pope 
paid frequent visits to Car- 
stairs 7 law vers j a remark of 
the junior partner, a some- 
what excitable person, to the 
effect that it was a pity Pope 
had not been brought up to 
the law, giving him great satis- 
faction until, in an evil moment 
for his peace of mind, he repeated it to the 
^vil-minded Knight. 

The lease w,as signed at last, and the house 
put into the hands of a well-known firm 
of builders j decorations proceeding with 
the slowness characteristic of good work and 
the ideals of the British workman. 

" Trying to hurry them is no good/' 
announced Mr. Pope, coming out of the house 
with a somewhat flushed face, on a fine after- 
noon in February, tl and sarcasm is simply 
thrown awav on them. One little rat of a 

painter actually asked me whether I had 
ever been on the music-halls. Me ! ?! 

11 I know the man vou mean/' said 
Carstairs. if I stood looking at him 
the other day for a quarter of an hollr 
and he never moved a muscle. However, 
they will finish some time, in spite of their 
efforts. Suppose we walk back and meet 
the car ! " 

It was damp underfoot, but the air was 
soft and warm, and birds of an optimistic 
turn of mma were aireadv_ beginning to sing 

mniu were aiuauv dciu 




the praises of spring. The two friends tramped 
un pleasantly until they readied the village, 
and, proceeding along the High Street, gazed 

£k Anybody hurt ? 

llr, Biggs stood 

think so/' he observed 


AT IT ! ' M 

with some curiosity at a little crowd at the 
other end of it, 

l( Looks like our ear," said Pope, quicken- 
ing his pace. 

It was their car, and their chauffeur with 
a piece of borrowed string was taking pa ins- 
taking measurements of the distance of his 
wheels frflm the footpath. His job finished, 
he proceeded quite unasked to perform the 
same offices for a damaged governess-ear that 
stood near by on one wheel- A neatly- 
shaved young groom, standing at his horse's 
head, watched him with calm disdain, 

'What is the matter ? " inquired Car- 
stairs, stepping forward, 

** Young lad and a voting horse, sir/' said 
Biggs, respect fully t but loudly. i£ Come 
right acrost the road into my off mudguard. 
Look at it ! " 

Carstairs glanced at the crumpled metal, 
and then looked at the shattered wheel of the 

he inquired. 
reflecting. lt I don't 
calmly. :t It wasn't 
his fault if they 
weren't ; he done 
'is best. Come 
right acrost the 
road ; I s'pose he 
pulled the wrong 
rein. 55 

Carstairs looked 
round inquiringly, 
A h andsome, 
smartly -dressed 
woman of about 
thirty-five stood 
on the footpath 
with a pretty girl. 
From a certain air 
of detached inltn m 
they manifested in 
the proceedings he 
came to the con- 
clusion that the 
trap belonged to 

lL I hope you' 
were not hurt ? n 
he said, raising Ms 

li Fortunately — 
no/* was there pi \\ 

•* Or shaken ? " 

A little colour 
appeared in the 

I a d y 's cheek. 

II One can hardly 
without," she said, 

beauty in distress 
lave been driving 

l>e shot out of a tart 

Few men can gaze on 
unmoved, lb You must 
very carelessly } Biggs ! " exclaimed Carstairs 

,+ Yessir," said Biggs, respectfully. 

" 4 You might have killed these ladies. ,J 

Biggs twisted his features into an expression 
of concern. " Yessir/* he said again* kl 1 
was only a foot from the kerb. 1 couldn't 
give em much more room/' 

He put his hand up/' said 
I see him do it, 

an old man 
You ought 


standing by + 
to ha' stopped 
p " You ought to be in bed/' said Biggs, in a 
low voice, as he edged up to him, * You 
oughtn't to be out with eyes like them. It 
ain't safe/' 

"I'm afraid we are to blame/' said Car- 
stairs, Ai but 1 am delighied to see that 
ix>bodv has been .injured. Mav I give vou mv 
address ? " ' ■ 


2 54 


He took out his case and, extracting a card, 
handed it to the owner of the trap. The girl 
leaned forward to read it, and then looking up 
aj; Carstairs favoured him with a dazzling 
smile. Her companion, placing the card 
in her purse, bowed and turned away. 

l< And if you would permit me to send you 
home," said Carstairs, u my car is at your 
disposal. Please take it." 

" He is really a good driver/ 1 said Pope, 
joining in the conversation. t4 You would 
be quite safe/' 

" Thanks very much, but we are quite able 
to walk," said the lady. 

" I don't know/' said the girl, gravely, 
with another glance at Carstairs. ' " I'd 
sooner ride, Isabel, if you don't mind. I 
feel just a wee bit tottery." 

Her companion hesitated. Carstairs held 
the door open, and, after another moment's 
hesitation, she stepped in and seated herself. 

u Very kind of you," she said, smiling. 

" It isn't far ; you won't have to wait long/' 

' Mr. Biggs, who was having a heart-to-heart 

talk with the groom, tore himself away 

with visible reluctance. 

" Why don't you 'old 'im properly ? " 
he said, alluding to the hoi^, t4 He's wiped 
'is nose once on your sleeve already." 

The wheelwright came up after the car had 
gone and took the trap away, and the horse 
and groom, a dejected couple, started on the 
walk home. Mr. Biggs, who met them on 
his return journey, was still smiling broadly 
when he rejoined his employer. 

" I couldn't say much before a lady, sir," 
he said, as Carstairs got into the car, " but 
it vjas their fault ; the horse 'danced about all 
over the road. I've drove a car for six 
years now and never touched anything yet. 
Other things 'ave touched me sometimes — 
and wished they 'adn't." 

Knight, who looked in at the flat late that 
evening, espoused the cause of Biggs. " Far 
too nervous and careful to run into any- 
thing," he said, scornfully. " My fingers 
simply itch to take the wheel away from him 

44 Let 'em itch," grunted Pope. 

" He'll draw a bath-chair before he has 
finished," said the young man, 44 with a 
dear friend of mine in it. By the way, who 
were the ladies ? What wa$ the vounu one 
like ? " * 

4< Attractive," replied Pope. 

Knight looked interested. fcl Very attrac- 
tive ? " he asked. 

Pope started and hid a grin. 4 * No," he 
replied. ilizc 

" What was the old lady like ? " inquired 
Knight, looking disappointed. 

" There was no old lady there," retorted 
Carstairs, sharply. ,l Really. Knight " 

Mr. Knight whistled. 4 * Sorry," he said, 
slowly, 4t but there's no disgrace in being old. 
I shall be old myself some day. Old age is 
beautiful. Isn't it, Pope ? Well, what 
was she like, anyway ? Attractive ? " 

Carstairs nodded. " A well-bred, handsome 
woman, a little over thirty, I should think," 
he replied. 

Knight's eyes sparkled. " And rather a 
sour expression ? " he inquired. 

41 Certainly not," said Carstairs and Pope 

4k If it is the one I am thinking of, 1 have 
seen it often enough," said Knight. 4 * But 
what was the girl really like, Carstairs ? " 

" Oh, nice bright girl," said Carstairs. 
4 'Friendly smi^ tallish. She called her 
friend Isabel." 

" There you are," said Knight, jumping 
up. 4< My suspicions are Confirmed. Isabel 
is Lady Penrose's name, and you begin an 
acquaintance I was looking forward to with 
great hopes by wrecking her cart. I wonder 
who the girl was ? " 

" Does it really matter ? " inquired Car- 
stairs, with a yawn. 

" No," said Knight. " I was wondering 
whether it was Miss Seacombe, that is all, 
but your description is far too lukewarm to 
apply to her. However, we shall know when 
you call to inquire." 

44 Call to inquire ? " repeated Carstairs. 
" I am not going to call. Why, I only know 
the lady's name by accident." 

" Of course you will call," said Knight. 
44 Vou knock a Couple pf ladies out of their 
trap with your beastly road-hog car, and then 
you think the affair is finished. Vou must 
display a little interest in the welfare of your 
victims. Ask Pope ; he knows." ; 

Mr. Pope, removing his cigar, pursed up 
his lips and frowned thoughtfully. " Wait 
till we get their bill for damages," he said 
at last, with a side glance at Carstairs. 
44 Then, if it is too heavy, Carstairs can call 
and protest and incjuire after her health at 
the same time." 

4i Funny," retorted Knight. <4 but that 

gives me an idea. I don't suppose it's at all 

likely Lady Penrose will make any claim. 

Carstairs can call on her if she doesn't and 

jnsist upon it. How will that do ? " 

44 Anything to get rid of you." said Car- 
stairs, with a glaralefipftitfre clock. 

" \mWHfejt¥ 6F MICHIGAN 



4i Perhaps." 

' I'll come with you next time you run 
down," said Knight, with an air of resigna- 
tion. " Things are sure to go wrong if I'm 
not there ; and you don't seem to realize 
how important this is. But don't forget 
one thing. Don't let Lady Penrose know 
that we are acquainted. Let it come as - 
a little surprise to her, when it is too 

" Any further instructions ? " inquired 

Ak I'll let you know on the way down/' was 
the reply. " Providence seems to be fighting 
on my behalf, and I want to give it all the 
assistance I can. I shall give Biggs half a 
crown; he deserves it." 

Biggs received the money next day, and, 
having placed it carefully in a leather purse 
before stowing it away in his pocket, made it 
quite clear to his benefactor that he had not 
earned it. He preferred to regard it as some 
slight consolation for a base attempt to injure 
an untarnished reputation. 

No word having come from Lady Penrose, 
they went dowh to Berstead a week later, 
the inability of Carstairs to make up his mind 
as to the propriety of calling causing great 
concern to Knight on the way. 

4 * If it had been a cottager you would have 
been round next evening," he said, severely. 
" Just because the unfortunate victim hap- 
pens tq be a lady you are treating her with 
studied -neglect. She may have died from 
shock for all you know — expecting you up 
to the end." 

" I thought I was to see her about the 
damage," observed Carstairs. 

*' Combine business with pleasure," said 
Knight ; " but don't ask after the cart first, 
mind. While you are gone, Pope and I will 
hustle the workmen for you. She won't 
bite you ; as a matter of fact, she is rather 
faddy about food." 

Carstairs dropped them at the house, and 
after remarking that he would be back in 
ten minutes' time, and adjuring Pope not to 
let Knight annoy the workmen, gave Biggs 
his directions and drove away. Pope, staring 
after the receding car, turned to confront 
his smiling "companion. 

" He is doing this for you," he said, 
importantly. " Carstairs is a very shy man, 
a remarkably shy man where women are 

4 It is time he was cured, then," said the 
other, serenely. " A man has no business 
to be shy. I never was. Women don't 
like shy men ; they are so difficult to 

encourage. Let's go inside and see how things 
are progressing." 

Pope followed him in, and for some time 
they wandered through the empty rooms. 
Many of them were finished, but in some the 
workmen still lingered. 

" Carstairs is taking a good ten minutes," 
said Knight, as they gained the hall again. 
" Got a cigarette about you, Pope ? I left 
mine in my coat." 

" Sq did I," said Pope. " Let's stroll as 
far as the lodge and meet him. I feel chilly 
standing about." 

They reached the lodge and stood waiting, 
and, there being no sign of the car, walked 
slowly back again to the house and sat on the • 
stairs. A gentle murmur sounded outside. 

" Rain," said Knight. 

He got up and walked about the house 
again. The men were putting their tools 
together, and, drifting downstairs, turned 
their coat-collars up at the door and departed 
in little groups. A foreman, waiting to 
lock up, coughed restlessly. 

" I'll take the key," said Pope. " Well 
leave it at the lodge." 

He put it in his pocket and, walking to the 
door, stood gazing at the rain, which was now 
falling steadily. 

" They must have had a breakdown," he 
said at last, crossly. " Pity we didn't ask 
them to give us some tea at the lodge." 

" Let's make a run for it," suggested the 

Pope shook his head. 4< Rheumatism/' 
he said, tersely. " We should get wet 
through." He put his hands in his pockets 
and paced to and fro. Half an hour passed. 

"Wonder what's happened?" said Knight. 
" I hope he's all right." 

" I wish he'd come," snapped Pope. 
" This is what comes of listening to you." 

He went back to the stairs again and sat 
shivering. Outside, the rain was falling faster 
than ever, and darkness was coming on. 

" I'm afraid you're right," he said, after 
a long silence. " Something must have 
happened to him. He'd never leave me 
here like this." 

" Or me," asserted Knight. " Hark ! " 

He stepped to the door again, followed by 
Pope. The sound of an approaching car 
was distantly audible, and in a few seconds 
the head-lights swung round the corner. It 
drew up as Pope locked the door, and stood 
waiting with a rhythmically throbbing engine. 

" What's the matter ? " he inquired,, as 
Biggs reached backwards and opened the 



21 fi 


" Matter ! ? ' 
repeated Car- 
stairs, in a 
voire- u Noth- 

1 What o n 
ear ih have you been all this 


By the way, 

who was in 

. time for, 

Pope j dropping heavily 
his seat 

11 Have I been long ? " 
said Carstairs* " It didn't 
seem like it.*' 

" But you haven't been 
all this time at Lady Pen- 
rose's? ?? said Knight, 

u Why not ? " said Car- 
stairs, with some warmth* 
Knight, it was Miss Seacomhc 
the trap with her that day.*' 

Mr, Knight, who was struggling into his 
coal, grunted. ' Your rapturous descrip- 
tion could only fit her/" he remarked, dryly, 
l( Let me give vou a hand with vour coat, 

Mr. Pope, accepting the proffered assistance, 
sank back into bis seat again, and after 
peering vainly at Carstairs in the darkness 
subsided into an aggrieved silence. He 
broke it at last with a remark about tea. 

14 Tea!" repeated Cars t airs, dreamily. u I've 
had some, thanks/" 

He pulled up his coat-eollar and, nestling 


comfortably in Ms corner, closed his eyes. 
^fr♦ Pope, suffering from a sudden fortunate 
impediment in his speech, allowed Knight 
to speak for him* 

** It isn't tea he wants/ 5 said that gentle- 
man, sharply, /* it's milk— a little oi the 
milk of human kindness. There he sits— 
wrapped up in himsrlf, and we can perish 
of cold and starvation for all he cares. Are 
you listening, Carstairs ? " 

1 1 forgot you/ 1 said Carstairs* " Stop 
at the first place you come to. Go on, 

** Forgot us ! " repeated Knight, raising 
his voice as the car moved on, u That's 
bis idea of an apology/' 

Original from 

p rtr ... Original from 

< r " ^ ^'"'""ffWvERSITY OF MICHIGAN 



1 ^ *^iiA< * Vl i' -* l * 

^ ■ 

* » 

-Wat *w ^ 


w * 




E are not supposed to be a 
musical nation— not supposed 
to know anything about music j 
not to be able to make music, 
nor to like it much. In our 
speech a popular song is popu- 
larly supposed to be a song 
without any musical merit whatsoever. But 
the war has changed everything for those who 
realize what the war means, and one of the 
needs of our armies has been discovered to be 
music — the best musk:, and still more music. 
It was February, 191 5, that the u Concert 
for the Front " scheme was started through 
the Y,M,C.A. That splendid organization had 
followed the armies out to the Front and had 
been busy erecting the now famous M huts/ 1 
where the men could assemble out of the rain 
and mud to write letters, and buy cigarettes 
and odds and ends to eat and drink. Some of 
these huts hold a thousand men, and the word 
will have to l>ear a new meaning in the dic- 
tionaries of the future* 

But for men accustomed to the varied 
resources of civilization, so many of them from 
our great cities w p here civilization means 
opportunities lor amusements, the recreation 

VoL 1L-24. 

afforded by the huts was limited ; and it was 
occurring to an unpleasantly-surprised Army 
that modern warfare was unexpectedly dull. 
The suggestion was made by the Ladies' 
Auxiliary Committee of the Y.M.C.A. — which 
has Princess Victoria of Schleswig-Holstein 
as chairman — that the huts might welcome 
the diversion of u concert. v 

It w p as not a very original idea except in 
so far as the circumstances made it novel ; 
but the men were writing home asking for 
children's mouth-organs with which to make 
a cheerful noise in the trenches, and gramo- 
phones were the most popular item (from the 
patients' point of view) in the equipment of 
military hospitals, So at the request of the 
Ladies* Auxiliary Committee a concert-party 
was organized — as anything would have been 
organized at the suspicion of a wish for it 
from the gallant armies in the battlefield. 

The musical tastes of our armies in the 
making were apparently elementary. Yet we 
decided to send a real concert- party with a 
programme of really good music. Mr. Theodor 
Flint %vent out to France to clear away 
preliminary difficulties, and the first concert- 




That first con cert- party was an experiment 
in every way. First of all, as the German 
submarines were just embarking on their 
inglorious career of piracy, there was the pre- 
liminary risk that the concert-party might never 
arrive But the real anxiety to the performers 
themselves was whether the music would 
really please the audience or bore them. The 
anxiety lasted until the first item on the pro- 
gramme of the opening concert was given, and 
then the thunderous applause of the soldier- 
audience crammed into the hut at Havre 
swept away all doubts. From that moment 
to this the cry has been for " More ! " Mr, 
Flint, who went for two weeks, has stayed 
out there a whole 
year organizing 
about three con- 
certs a day, and 
in March a second 
party was sent to 
tour a different 

Now there are 
two concert-parties 
at work at once- 
one on the longer 
route, Rouen and 
Havre, the other 
on the Dieppe and 
Boulogne rout e. 
The one stays a 
month, the other 
three weeks, and 
by giving three 
concerts a day the 
principal centres 
and hospitals get 
a concert once a 
month. This en- 
tails a considerable 

amount of hard 
work; a hospital 
concert every 
afternoon — two 
camp concerts 
every evening. 
Perhaps the camp 
to be visited is 
twenty-five miles 
away ; and the 
performers are 
driven there in a 
WM.C.A. motor, 
to find that the 
second concert is 
twenty- five miles 
farther on still. 
That means a 
fifty-mile drive home in an open car, after 
having given three concerts , and if a tyre 
punctures or the road is missed, the weary 
concert-party may get hack again at 3 a.m. 

The original intention had been that each 
member of the coneertrparty should contri- 
bute two items to the programme, as there are 
always six performers (soprano, contralto, 
tenor, bass, violinist or 'cellist, and enter- 
tainer), and the concerts last for an hour and 
a half, but our first audiences altered that 
arrangement for us and simplified the time- 
table by encoring everybody and everything 
over and over again. So now every member 
of the party gives one song or solo with as 




many encores as the audience absolutely insist 
on having — two or three^orJour^r five some- 

In twelve months one thousand five hundred 
concerts have been given, and the fame of 
them has spread not only all over Flanders 
and Northern France , but to Malta and Egypt, 
where we have just sent out a party, at the 
request of those in authority, to cheer the 
troops quartered near the Mediterranean 
bases and the many hospitals there. 

It is very difficult for people at home to 
realize the monotony of life when life consists 
of hard work, rigid military discipline; and 
nothing else, and when one's world is suddenly 
a town of bare huts in a sea of mud j or a 
casino, race-course, or railway- station trans- 
formed into a hospital — a veritable city of 
pain. Such worlds would be nightmare worlds 

doing for us, I was waiting at the base to 
return to the trenches, having been in hos- 
pital, wounded and suffering from frost-bite \ 
in fact, I was returning to the trenches on 
the following day, and I wouldn't have missed 
that concert for anything ; it did make such 
a difference, Wc all agreed that we would 
go back to the trenches and fight all the 
better for the happy remembrance of the 
concert-party, I was feeling rather lonely, 
not having anybody to write to while I was 
out there, and 1 began to feel I was fighting 
for no one until your cheery party came along." 

Another treasured epistle in my possession 
begins :- — 

l< Dear Lady Friend," and ends with the 
happy afterthought, '* P*S. — I hope we soon 
beat those Germans," 

The friendliness of the concerts appeals 


if it were not for the patience and cheerfulness 
which are the victorious spirits of any army. 

In these worlds the visit of a concert-party 
is an event looked forward to for w r eeks before- 
hand and talked of for weeks afterwards. 
The men welcome the music as if they were 
hungry and thirsty for the beauty and comfort 
of it, and if it was a touching surprise to find 
out how much the concerts were needed, it 
was even a greater surprise to find that it 
was the good music , true music, that they loved 
most. The men have different ways of ex- 
pressing their appreciation. One lad will say, 
gratefully, " Fve heard worse for ninepence 
at home," and another will write a long letter 
of thanks for himself and his comrades : — 

" I have been wanting , on behalf of all 
the lads, to write a letter of thanks and 
appreciation for the splendid work you are 

to the men immensely. They are in a foreign 
country among a people* speaking a strange 
tongue, and the majority of them have never 
been out of England before ; many of the 
men and lads are homesick, though they may 
not realize it or call their loneliness by that 
name* As a matter of fact, they call it 
l( toothache/ 1 and the number of officers and 
men who suddenly develop " toothache " 
just before Christmas is as remarkable as their 
firm belief that a few days' leave at home 
would be the only infallible cure. The theory 
they wish to impress on incredulous authorities 
above them is that they want to visit their 
dentist. Anyway, their intense pleasure over 
a concert-party straight out from England — 
out especially to visit them and to sing them 
English songs— is pathetic in its veryjovfulness. 

"^fMm&^fiisr ,hat arc " 

i 260 


pathetic. The 
picture of a 
li I i n d e d boy 
laughing at and 
every item on 
the programme j 
including the 
feats of a clever 
conjurer (ex- 
plained to him 
by the wounded 
man on a 
stretcher at his 
side) is just one 
instance of the 
wonderful spirit 
of the conva- 
lescent a u d i- 

We continu- 
ally get letters 
from busy doc- 
tors, colonels, 
chaplains, and 
nursing - sisters, 
who find time 
to write to tell 
us that the 

music does what nothing else can do. A 
chaplain tells us that the musk is worth much 
physic and not a few sermons to his charges, 
and a RJLM.C doctor that "one concert- 
party out here is worth half-a-dozen nerve 
specialists at home " to his. 

For, quite apart from the pleasure the 
music brings into the hospitals, it does more 
than give the patients a happy afternoon. 
It seems to break the spell that the horrors 
and the deafening noise of modern artillery 
warfare lay on the* nerves of so many of the 
men. The good it does is permanent, There 
have been cases when the music has brought 
back memory to # man who had completely 
lost it, and speech to another struck dumb ; 
and though such cases are, naturally, excep- 
tional ., the music not only seems to make 
the men forget their pain and weariness for 
the time being, it soothes and calms their 
tense-strained nerves and gives them happy 
memories instead of horrible ones. 

But it isn't only the sick and wounded and 
combatant branches of the Army that need 
and enjoy the concerts. There are hundreds 
of thousands of A.S.C* and Army Ordnance 
men who have been out since the early days 
of the war working sixteen hours or more 
a dav, officers and men, week-days and 


Sundays alike, without leave or recreation. 
And then there is the medical service and the 
nursing-sisters. It is one of the mysteries of the 
war, where so many thousands of splendidly- 
trained nurses have come from. The nurses 
live under as strict a military discipline as the 
troops— rather stricter, in fact, for they are 
never allowed out in the evenings at all 
except to come to the concert we give them 
once a month. Our 4i Officers' and Nurses' f * 
concert is the only occasion when the nurses 
from the different hospitals meet each other, 
and we have pauses between the music, so 
that they can talk. It is their one oppor- 
tunity. They are all fetched in from the 
different hospitals in motor-cars by the 
Y.M.C.A., and driven back again when it is 
over, It is a very pretty sight— the vast 
audience of nurses in their white coifs and 
uniforms, the blues and preys, with touches 
of military scarlet, and their happiness over 
the very simple pleasure is delightful. 

During the summer months the concerts 
are usually given out of doors, A little 
platform is erected by the wayside or in a 
convenient field — a piano is conjured up from 
somewhere by means only known to the 
Y.M,CA, + and the comert-party, rather like 

a l^#/ErBtf^ the $ r ^ 




wood tree/* play and sing to an audience 
stretched at upon the grass just as far 
as it can hear ; if the concert is at. a camp 
hospital the wounded are wheeled or carried 
out in their beds; transport men passing by 
with lorries and wagons halt and join in, 
and in a cavalry camp one moonlight night 
the audience was surrounded by a circle of 
horses and their riders on their way back 
to camp from being watered. 

Oh two occasions our concert- parties have 
included enterprising little dramatic companies 
who undertook to perform short plays- with- 
out scenery, with only such properties as 
could be carried or improvised on the spot, 
and with a tent for (s green-room " ! No 
difficulties baulked them. They played a 
" scene in a May fair drawing-room *' with one 
chair, a table, and empty ginger-beer bottles 
for tea-cups, and in the twilight out-of-doors 
they discovered footlights in motor-lamps. 

It is difficult to answer the question, *' What 
Kings and music do the men love most ? yy 
They like anything that is simple and beauti- 
ful. They love the songs they know, and they 
also love and adopt at once music that is new 
to them. The Scots' regiments never tire of 
11 Loch Lomond/" for instance, while l( Annie 
I^aurie/' with the whole audience joining in 

the chorus^ is 
an ever -green 
favourite. We 
have taken out 
some of the fine 
old English folk- 
songs, such as 
"The Keys of 
Heaven/* and 
the men love and 
learn them in- 
stantly. They 
will get them 
word-perfect at 
once and march 
back to camp 
singing them. 
The love of 
our Tommies 
for a new 
tune is the 
amazement of 
enemies and of 
our Allies when 
they march out 
of battle shout- 
ing the fl J Ymn 
of *Ate " ac- 
quired from 
the Germans, 
more popularly known as the " 'Uns." 

There is nothing strange or whimsical or 
modern in the craving of our armies for 
music. Music has always been one of the 
greatest healing and comforting elements in 
the world from the childhood of man, since 
before the days when David sang to Saul and 
vanquished the spirits of evil and sadness 
that possessed him* The desire for music is 
really as primitive as the desire for food and 
water, and as our indomitable troops have so 
far asked for nothing in vain, we hope to be 
able to give them the music and the comfort 
and happiness that it brings to them until the 
end of the war. 

Perhaps in conclusion I may quote from a 
testimony to our work of which we are very 
proud. It is from the medical paper the 
Hospital, which wrote last August about the 
concerts : ** Honey for this purpose is just 
as usefully expended as if it were spent on 
splints and bandages, for diversion and 
amusement are valuable aids to recovery from 
bodily ills, whether they be fevers or bullet- 
wounds. It would probably be true to say 
that these concert-parties have actually 
saved livjes.. .Unquestionably, they have 
brightened tht,se of thousands of our soldiers 
just UN WERSffif ^sHLGMftoA Ml i version . ' " 

Irene s Great Adventure. 


Illustrated by F. Gillett, R.L 


ONALD, is it wise to ask 
him ? Wouldn't it be better 
to—? » 

11 No, Irene, Pm sure it 

wouldn't ; if anybody can 

give me a fair opinion, he 

can. I'll catch him as he 

comes out — and tell him I want to speak to 

him— and explain everything as I said." 

The man spoke eagerly, and if not petu- 
lantly at least insistently ; the girl stood 
hesitant as if still unconvinced, 

"There's the last bus!" she cried, "I 
shall catch it at the corner if I run. Meet rue 
in the village at half- past twelve to-morrow 
and tell me what he says i 7 ' 

The man turned and stood resolutely watch- 
ing by the low wall in front of a house of 
some pretensions which stood well back from 
the road. A blaze of light poured out of the 
open doorway ; a throng of men and women 
were streaming into the roadway by one 
or other of the double wooden gates at 
each end of the gravel horns, 

It was the Burnt Green Literary Society 
making homeward at the end of a highly 
successful evening ■ excellent and amiable 
citizens who for a brief season had diverted 
their minds from business and had sought 
recreation in aesthetics after long hours at 
their offices, immersed in material things. 

They were discussing the paper of the 
evening — which had been upon the de- 
cadence of the modern novel— and were 
enthusiastically talking of the reader, by 
whom they seemed deeply impressed. 

The final salutations were finished ; the 
last couple had gone homewards ; but the 
watcher continued to promenade the pave- 
ment, turning as he reached each gate like 
a sentry, keeping his eye always upon the 
now closed door of the house. 

Suddenly a light streamed out again ; the 
door was open, and two persons stood in 
full view, One was a man — the hero of the 
evening ; the other was an elderly lady at 
whose house the society had flfeJU Vllf (jhan 

bowed rather like an automaton as he shook 
hands with her, then raised his hat, set it 
on his head again, and once more lifted it as 
he ran down the steps. 

As he did so, the man who had been doing 
sentry very hurriedly came up. 

" Oh, Apperson,'* he said, " I should like 
h to have a few words with you, May I come 
to your rooms ? " 

There was a pause. The man addressed 
was staring at his interlocutor in the dark- 
ness ; then, with what deemed like consider- 
able unwillingness, he gave assent M Oh, 
yes," he answered, stiffly. "By all means, 
if you have anything special to say. But you 
mustn't stay very long. I have the greatest 
possible objection to being out of bed after 
eleven o'clock/' 

" Thank you very much. I won't keep 
you more than a few minutes. What an 
excellent paper you gave us ! It is the best 
we have ever had ! " 

The two men passed on almost in silence 
for a couple of hundred yards. Then the 
road ended and they struck into another road 
which ran only to the right. 

The man called Appcrson led the way 
through the garden of a house which, though 
smaller, was in shape very similar to the one 
which he had left. He let himself in with a 
latchkey, took off his coat and hat, and hung 
his scarf up, gave no invitation to his guest 
to do likewise, and opened the door of a room 
on the left, 

The visitor took the chair offered him with 
grateful alacrity, but it was easy to see that 
he was in a considerably nervous state. He 
was a man of about eight-and-twent>% with 
fair hair which hinted at presently becoming 
scanty, well-set hut worried grey- blue eyes, 
a long nose, a short upper-lip, and that very 
full lower-lip which frequently accompanies 
great nervous energy and is so often a salient 
part of the physiognomy of those who are 
destined for the arts. He was slight^ thin — 
though quite healthy-looking — apart from 
the suggestion of temporarv nervous strain. 



— it was characteristic that he did not invite 
his guest's opinion as to the strength of it — 
brought the glass across, set it on a side table, 
put down a silver cedar-lined box containing 
cigarettes, saw his guest take one, followed 
the example, and then walked over to and 
sat down in another chair. He crossed his 
legs — they were curiously short ones for his 
six feet of height and heavy torso — an* 
then leaned back his head, which was com- 
posed, in front, of an unusually fine chin, a 
mouth whose thin lips were sensitive, a short, 
thin nose, bridged by straight-barred pince- 
nez, and an unexpectedly retreating forehead 
over which dark hair was consciously and 
carefully disposed. About forty, he was a 
reader to a publisher into whose firm he had 
gone after leaving Oxford, not because he 
had any special qualifications, but because 
he had literary aspirations and was able to 
put into the business several thousand pounds. 
Except for stray and invariably pedantic 
verses, he had never produced anything 
beyond certain unsaleable comic operas and 
two plays of incredible dullness, which were 
performed occasionally by local amateurs. 
He was a good, sound citizen who had never 
done any man an injury — though, on the 
other hand, he was without sufficient warm- 
heartedness, force, and imagination to do 
any man spontaneous good. 

Having disposed himself comfortably, he 
set finger-tips to finger-tips judicially, and with 
condescension addressed his guest. 

u Well, Lane/' he began. " What is it 
that you want to say ? " 

The younger man leaned forward, clutched 
his knee nervously, and began. It was 
evident, from his deferential and deprecating 
manner, that he regarded his host as a highly 
important man. This was not surprising. 
Burnt Green — though famous — is Philistine ; 
and Apperson was its literary lion, for the 
other members of the great Republic of Letters 
who had their homes there were either too 
bored or too busy to mix with the society 
of the place. 

44 It is about the school, to begin with. 
You know that Mr. Barton has sold it and 
that the new man comes next term." 

" Yes ? " 

" Well, I'm going — I mean I've got notice 
to leave. And I wanted to come and con- 
sult you about getting something to do." 

44 Yes ! " 

Apperson's monosyllable, on the first 
occasion interrogative, now became appre- 
hensive ; this sounded like a personal appeal. 
I hough strong and brave physically, he 

always shirked " situation," and, as his 
guest continued, there were signs of uneasiness 
in his face. 

44 You see, Barton took me in, at eighteen, 
after I left Wellington and couldn't afford 
the Army or Oxford — and I've been with 
him ever since. I've no degree — and it's 
no easy matter to get a mastership without 
one — at any decent school. And after a 
place like Barton's, it spoils one for a fifth- 
rate school." 

" Quite so — quite so. But I am afraid 
I have no influence in matters scholastic. 
You should apply to an agent at once." 

" I have done so. But I want to give up 
schoolmastering ; there is, I repeat, no 
living in it for a man without a degree. I 
would very much prefer to take up a literary 

Apperson smiled. He looked at his guest 
pityingly, and though his answer was civil 
there was contempt in it — underneath. 

" You seem to think that in the world of 
letters a man can jump into a job at any 
moment : let me assure you that such is not 
the case. And you must not think that 
because you have written a few light verses 
you are qualified to make literature your 

Lane blushed crimson. Ever since leaving 
school he had made rhymes in suburban 
secrecy ; and two years ago he had ventured 
to show them to Apperson, who had read 
them, condemned them, and had handed 
them back with the politest of polite derision, 
and the question of " How much a yard ? " 

" Oh, I know those were bad," he answered, 
humbly. " I have put them aside, of course. 
But I've written a novel. I've given two 
years and immense labour to it — and I thought 
it might be some good. I wondered — in fact, 
I came to ask you if you would read it 

Apperson raised his eyebrows. It was not 
his habit to do anything for nothing, and he 
was jealous of his leisure time. But in his 
business hours it was another matter ; and 
he might as well have Lane's manuscript 
in front of him as the manuscript of anyone 
else. Besides, he had a not unnatural 
curiosity to see this young man's work. 

44 If you care to send it to John Julius 
Braithwaite and Company," he answered, 
" I will see that it reaches my hands. I will 
read it through and give it full consideration 
and report early to the firm." 

44 Thanks awfully, Apperson. It's jolly 
good of you. Schoolmastering is so utterly 
hopele^^^-^l^'lhp^Jjf^l^t.l^ break out if 



I can. Between ourselves, I want to get 
married, too/' 

Apperson started visibly ; he had, on this 
occasion, extreme difficulty in hiding his 
contempt. Marriage ! Did the youn# fool 
think o£ marrying on nothing when he, 
Apperson, could not see his way to matrimony 
on a clear eight hundred a year ? 

" Might I ask 
who is the lady ? " 
he said, with polite 
irony. ** Is it any- 
one I know ? i7 

"Oh, yes, 
know her* 
Miss Baird." 

" What ! " 

" Yes ; you see, 
she isn't too happy 
with her step- 

mother, and we're both rather ambitious 
and anxious to go ahead. She designs, you 
know— and we're both keen on pictures— and 
so we've a common bond." 

Apperson did not smile now. He van 
frowning — not because he loved Irene Baird 
and was jealous, but because he detested 
her cordially us the solitary person in Burnt 



Original from 
* in-: saiiv, with F^^ER^WOPMCHtGdVN^ l know?" 



Green who treated him as an ordinary being 
and did not accept him as a very clever man. 
Indeed — and he knew it of instinct — she 
secretly questioned his ability, and he 
naturally disliked her. However, whatever 
his faults, he was not vulgar, and he did the 
becoming thing. 

u Indeed ! " he said, rising and holding out 
his hand, both as token of congratulation and 
as sign that the interview was ended. " I 
congratulate you, and I hope that you will be 
happy — very happy indeed. Good night. No 
trouble — a pleasure. Don't forget to send 
the manuscript to the firm." 

Lane came out of the gates of Huntingdon 
House School, which he was to leave so shortly, 
and walked with quick, impetuous strides 
along the road which leads to Burnt Green. 
He emerged upon the ancient common ; as 
he did so a girl rose from a seat on the edge of 
it, came towards him, greeted him, set herself 
into step with him, and walked by his side 
towards Burnt Green Village, three parts of 
a mile away. The path — which ran along 
the edge of the Green on one side, and was 
close to a " Rotten Row " on the other — was 
alive with people passing either way. It was 
Saturday morning in October, mild and boon 
and sunny ; and the old-fashioned village, as 
they reached it, was alive with chattering folk. 
They passed the station and went into a 
confectioner's opposite, and climbed to an 
upstairs room. Lane ordered coffee. They 
began to sip it; he talking, she listening to 
what he had to tell. She was charming to 
look at, utterly and intensely English ; her 
face most exquisitely moulded, her hair rather 
neutral but with strong streaks of red. Her 
eyes were well set ; her nose was almost a 
scimitar, her upper- lip was proud. She looked 
the picture of health, and looked/also, ardent 
and affectionate, full of impulse and heart: 

" He was nice to you? - she was saying. 
" He really received you well ? " * 

" Oh, quite well. * He -has promised to 
read it through. I sent it off this morning by 
parcel post." 

44 Arid* if it comes back ? " 

" I shall put it away for a year or two and 
try something else/' 

The girl shot a glance at him. Then she 
half smiled. 

" Then you believe in him so tremendously," 
she said. 

44 Why, yes. Doesn't he read for John 
Julius Braithwaite ? And isn't he called by 
everybodv ' the cleverest young man in Burnt 

Gre ^,',i Digitized by G 

" I know. But does Burnt Green know 
very much about it, after all ? It can judge 
solicitors and doctors and architects, because 
it's made up of such professions ; but he is 
the only literary man who lives here who has 
anything to do with it at all. Harry Cooper, 
the librettist, Sir Henry Caesar, the actor, and 
Mr. Bunbury, the novelist, all keep them- 
selves to themselves — and have their friends 
in Town." 

Her fianct looked at her rather shockedly. 
He had so long lived in his suburb that he 
thought it was the only place in the world. 

" I don't know about the others," he con- 
ceded ; " but as for Bunbury — my word ! 
you should hear what Apperson thinks of him. 
He says he's the greatest pot-boiler unhanged. 
He turns out half-a-dozen serials annually, 
and a book every three months ! " 

44 And he keeps a lovely car — and Mrs. 
Bunbury dresses beautifully — and his children 
are little dears. And if he is fat — and drinks 
more than is good for him — that isn't our 
affair. You should be more tolerant, Ronald 
— and take bigger views." 

Ronald nodded penitently. Very intelli- 
gent, but still more sensitive, except as regards 
his immense belief in Apperson, he was in- 
tensely humble where his fiancSe was concerned. 
For once — though not now — she had enjoyed 
experiences and advantages and opportunities 
of meeting people such as had never been his. 

44 I'm sorry," he answered. " I suppose I 
am narrow^ So would you be if you'd been 
born and brought up in a place like Burnt 
Green. Well, we shall see what happens. I 
must be getting back to the school." 

He rose"; she imitated him. They parted 
almost at once. 'Ronald jumped on a bus. 
Irene remained behind. She had some shop- 
ping to do — but while she shopped she 
thought. She was worried — very worried — 
about Ronald's future — and not less about her 
own. She wanted, above all things, to escape 
from her stepmother's house. 

She was the daughter of a painter of some 
standing who had married again a few months 
before he died, and up till then — till her 
seventeenth birthday — she had had chances 
of meeting many intelligent people who came 
to their Kensington home. But since then — 
her stepmother had married again speedily — 
she had been living down at Burnt Green, and 
— she was now four-and-twenty— she had 
been wretched and mentally starved. Her 
stepfather "was against girls working, and her 
struggle even to be allowed to learn designing 
— which she had talent for — had been difficult 
and prolonged, Miserable, clever, ambitious, 




and a fish out of water, she had inevitably 
attracted — and been attracted by — Ronald, 
who was in a very similar case. It was she 
who had urged him to write the novel, and he 
had responded to her encouragement like a 
flash. But the idea of offering it broadcast to 
publishers was absolute anathema to his 
sensitive and suburban mind. He preferred 
infinitely to have the private opinion of 
Apperson, in whom he so greatly believed. 

Still thinking, still worrying about the 
future, Irene strolled up the hill towards her 
home on the terrace at the top of it, which 
looks out over Burnt Green ; and on its crest 
— no unusual occurrence — she ran right into 
Apperson, who rarely went up to London on 
the sixth day of the week. 

Usually he greeted her distantly. To-day 
he stopped and spoke. 

4< Good morning ! " he said. He affected, 
towards women, the polysyllabic and the 
alliterative. " A monstrous beautiful morn- 
ing ; it beats the best and balmiest breezes 
of Bournemouth to bits. By the way, what 
an appropriate encounter ! I am full of 
felicitations. I hear you are actually en- 

Irene laughed and thanked him. He con- 
tinued in the lordliest of tones. 

" Lane let me know the news last night ; he 
came to call after the literary club's delightful 
and delectable debate. He made mention of 
a modest manuscript. I am prepared to 
peruse it promptly when he forwards it to 
our firm. I am quite considerably curious. 
He showed me some positively passable 
poetry a couple of years ago." 

Irene winced. She could have struck him. 
She knew that he had discouraged Ronald 
horribly years ago. However, for Ronald's 
sake, she kept her temper, and shook hands 
with him, and thanked him for his congratu- 
lations, and passed on to her stepfather's 
house. An hour later she had taken refuge 
in her own third-storey bedroom, which looked 
out upon the Green. The sun still shone, but 
the wind had changed and sharpened ; and 
there was one of those combinations of climatic 
conditions which stir impulse in imaginative 
people and often give them ideas. 

She had an idea now. It was so wild, 
desperate, daring, and chimerical that she 
wondered how she had ever thought of such 
a plan. And she stood long, fearful, adven- 
turous, and hesitant, looking out of the win- 
dow at the broad stretch of common with the 
roads criss-crossing it and the distant red- 
brick wall of the park in the distance, with 
the foliage of the chestnut trees bulging over 

Digitized by VjOGfilt 

like woolly green buttons on a baize curtain 
which is being held upside down. 

She wanted to do something for Ronald ; 
she wanted to do it desperately, with the 
passionate instinct of the warm-hearted to 
advantage those they love. But she, as he, 
was sensitive ; and there was so much to 
overcome. Yet she overcame it with one of 
those immense efforts which give ultra- 
sensitive persons gre^t forces when they have 
steeled themselves to action — great and often 
compelling moral forces which the thicker- 
skinned rarely possess. 

She put on her hat, caught up her gloves, 
and took a parcel from a drawer — a bundle of 
manuscript — the under copy of Ronald's 
typed novel which he had given her to read. 
She made for the door. Then, with an im- 
pulse, she turned back. She opened the 
drawer again and took out an envelope of 
some size. It contained some typed sheets 
of foolscap — Ronald's poems of two years 
ago, of which Apperson had said, scoffiiigly, 
" How much a yard ? " 

Then she went downstairs, crossed the 
road, and hurried over the Green. She was 
making for a large house, three parts of a mile 
away, on a corner of the road which abutted 
on the common. She reached, it, and rang 
the bell. 

" Is Mr. Bunbury in ? "she asked the maid. 

The woman considered Irene, diagnosed her 
as a possible applicant for the post of secretary, 
asked her to enter, and inquired her. name. 
Irene gave it, and was ushered into a luxurious 
room. It was such a room as Irene had 
never seen. 

The walls were covered with prints and 
" pictures of race-horses — Bunbury had once 
sold half a million copies of a sporting novel — 
and over the mantelpiece, and stuck about 
here, there, and everywhere, were signed 
photographs of celebrities whose names were 
household words. Great actors, jockeys and 
trainers, and titled owners looked down upon 
her, and she felt that she had left Burnt 
Green and its narrowness a million miles 
behind. Before she had time fully to realize 
her daring, or to think what she was to say 
to him, Bunbury entered the room. At the 
sight of him her heart was uplifted, for she 
was aware immediately that he was after the 
manner of some of the jolly, human, Bohemian, 
good-hearted men and women who had made 
much of her in her father's London studio 
when she had been a little child. 

He bowed to her ceremoniously, as she had 
never been bowed to before — it was, indeed, 
his mannerism, for he bad begun life as an 




actor in a famous Shakespearean touring com- 
pany after an all too brief university career. 
His bright eyes shone upon her like search 
lights, and Irene had the feeling that all her 
past, present, and future had been discerned 
and docketed for future reference as if by 
the mysterious mechanism of some mental 
Rontgen rays. 

41 Miss Baird, I believe;' he said. " What 
may I have the pleasure of doing for you ? 
Won't you sit down ? " 

He waved his hand dramatically. Irene 
felt that his invitation was an imperative 
command. She sank weakly into the depths 
of an enormous armchair. All her courage 
ebbed from her. She tried to speak. But 
vainly. All that she could do was to turn 
over, nervously, the parcel of manuscript and 
the long white envelope, and to shift them 
from hand to hand. And she looked, speech- 
less and imploringly, at Bunbury's search- 
light eyes. 

The eyes lost something of their keenness, 
and kindness took its place. Perhaps he 
was remembering a fateful day, twenty years 
before, when, sent down from Oxford, cut 
adrift by his parents, he had gone, with 
an introduction from a sympathetic tutor, 
desperate and nearly starving, to call, not 
unsuccessfully, upon the world-known editor 
of a famous weekly review, Anyhow, he 
left the fireplace and sat down at a table, 
close to Irene's chair. 

" What have you been doing ? " he asked, 
gently. u Coquetting with the muse ? " 

" N-n-no ; it isn't — I haven't " 

Irene stopped abruptly, the river of speech 
in her dried up by the bright warm glance 
of his eyes. His hand was outstretched for 
the manuscripts. Meekly she delivered parcel 
and envelope too. He glanced at the former, 
put it on the table beside him, and opened the 
envelope — which was not sealed down. He 
took out the manuscript, made as if to read it, 
then rose, walked to a side table, and mixed 
himself a drink. He returned to his table, 
took a long pull at his whisky-and-soda, and 
began to read the typed verses of Ronald Lane. 
They were all short. From the very begin- 
ning, Irene could see that he was pleased. 
More than once, as he turned over a flimsy 
page, having finished a poem, she heard him 
mutter " Deucedly good ! " When he had 
finished — he went through the lot like a 
torpedo — he leaned back and set his search- 
light-like eyes upon her eager face. His 
voice had changed utterly. He spoke as 
equal to equal ; with the homage of brains 
to brains. 

Digitized by LiOOQ U? 

" Did you do these ? " he asked. 

" No ; they're not mine — thev're mv 

" Oh-h ! I see now." Bunbury's forehead 
relaxed perceptibly. " And did he tell you 
to bring them to me ? " 

" No ; I didn't tell him I was coming here. 
I just did it on impulse. You see " 

She paused again. Bunbury looked so 
encouraging that almost at once she dashed 
ahead with her tale. 

" He's a master at Huntingdon House — he's 
been there ten years now — ever since he left 
school, for he couldn't afford to go to Oxford 
— and the head master has sold the school and 
Ronald's got to leave. And as he's no degree 
— and can't afford to take one — he doesn't 
know what to do." 

" But what about journalism ? " 

" I want him to go in for it. I think he's 
clever, but Mr. Apperson poured cold water 
on him two years ago. He took Mr. Apperson 
a copy — another copy — of the novel — the 
one you've got on the table — last night. Mr. 
Apperson is going to read it — and to say 
what he thinks. I wish he hadn't. Mr. 
Apperson always discourages him. When 
he took him those verses two years ago, he 
asked, ' How much a yard ? ' " 

" These verses here ? " 

"Yes. Those." 

Bunbury smiled — as Irene felt it, the kindest 
smile in the world. 

" My dear," he said, " these things here 
on the table are not great poetry, but they 
are delightful minor verse ; they are polished, 
thorough, and elegant ; the very things that 
the Westminster and the Pall Mall want. 
Apperson is an ass and a pompous pedant 
who has probably cost John Julius Braith- 
waite many thousands of pounds. Only 
they can't very well get rid of him. He put 
money into the business, fifteen or sixteen 
years ago when they were shaky, and they 
can't afford to buy him out." 

Irene beamed. She could have hugged 
Bunbury — first for his kindness, then for 
' flattering her vanity by holding the identical 
opinions concerning Apperson that her 
woman's instinct had formed. And she 
knew, also instinctively, that he wished her 
and Ronald well. 

" Then you will read the novel — and advise 
him what to do ? : ' 

Bunbury smiled again, got up, and stood 
astride of the hearthrug once more. 

" You leave that to me," he said, smiling. 
" If the novel is anything like as thorough 
and as charming in sentiment as the verses, 




your fianci has no need to be alarmed. 
However, we can't talk business for ever, 
Come and be introduced to my wife. 1 ' 
He rose and walked to the door with quick. 

short, sharp little steps, held it open, and 
motioned to her to pass through. She 
obeyed in an ecstasy of happiness, which 
she had earned real right to enjoy. She felt 
a wave of love towards the whole universe — 
and in particular towards Bunbury— whom 
she had had for several minutes a huge desire 
to hu^. 


The offices of John Julius Braithwaite Icok 
out upon the river and are hard upon the 
premises of a famous literary club, Apper- 
son's desk was in the window, so that the 


y€Wgli? ; 

o; they're not Qtififikmskitttt my fiance's.' " 




light came over his left shoulder ; and every 
now and then he raised his eyes from the 
typed manuscript which he was reading and 
stared out upon the view. But the magic 
of the water, the va-et-vient of the people 
on the Embankment, the sun fighting with, 
and slowly conquering, the fog of a November 
morning — all these things were lost on him ; 
the strong jaws were closely pressed together ; 
and the forehead, whose narrowness the 
carefully-brushed hair could not cover, was 
wrinkled and perturbed. In him — for, though 
an utter pedant, he was by no means heartless 
— generosity and meanness were at war. It 
was in his power at this moment to advantage 
greatly, or to discourage badly, the humble 
Ronald Lane. 

The manuscript — he had finished reading 
it — was well written, though in sentiment 
ridiculously young. There was no money 
in it, but if published it would just pay its 
way. The question was whether he should 
advise the firm to take it up — in the hope that 
the author would presently be of value to 
them — or whether he should turn it down. 
From a business point of view there was not 
much to choose either way. It was largely a 
question of sympathy and generousness of 
heart. # N 

And — despite his industry, his clean-living, 
and a general uprightness of character — 
generousness of heart and sympathy were 
two qualities wl)ich Apperson lacked. To 
begin with, Nature had not been over-lavish 
to him in these particulars ; to go on with— 
well-to-do, leading a sheltered and narrow 
existence — he h^d not had the kind of life 
which develops a man's charity for people 
who are out of luck. Not consciously — but 
none the less certainly — his feeling was 
that those who are down are down because 
they deserve it, and should be kept precisely 
where they are. His outlook was perhaps 
more common than many might care to 

Still, the two points of view were nicely 
balanced at this moment, and the scales 
might even now have gone down in Ronald's 
favour, but for a single thing. That thing 
was his own position, of which he was so 
proud and so jealous ; the book was based 
upon life in Burnt Green, without pillorying 
anyone ; and young Lane would be the lion 
of the neighbourhood were it to be brought 
out. This decided him. He would reject 
it — as was perfectly reasonable — and young 
Lane, remaining in scholastic employment, 
would shortly leave the place. Then, if 
the literary sense was sufficiently strong in 

him," the boy would write other novels, and 
if he cared to submit them to John Julius 
Braithwaite, or could find another publisher, 
very well and very good. But for the present 
the answer must be " No." 

So deciding, Apperson took pen and paper, 
and, with the swiftness born of long habit, 
this is what he wrote : — 

" I am sorry not to be able to report 
favourably of this novel, but, though it is 
sufficiently well written, it is outstandingly 
and ridiculously young, and, though perhaps 
its sentiments might be popular with school- 
girls, I am convinced that to the majority 
of novel readers it would make absolutely 
no appeal. Anthony Hope or the Baroness 
Orczy would have made a superb story out 
of the plot, but the present author has little 
or no sense of characterization ; his people 
are mere labels, and, taking everything into 
consideration, it is a volume which I cannot 
honestly recommend. " 

Having scribbled this, Apperson rang the 
bell, delivered the draft to the typist, and 
went on with some other work. Presently 
he signed the report, instructed the typist 
to dispatch the manuscript, and strolled 
round to Simpson's for lunch. From there 
he went homewards. Before dusk — the golf 
club-house was close to the station — he would 
have time for nine holes. 

At King's Cross he sustained a mild shock. 

Lane was on the platform ; he had had the 
morning off to interview a schoolmaster at 
Hampstead whose need of an assistant had 
been notified to him by a scholastic agent of 
fame. The interview had been unsatis- 
factory ; the master, all kindness, had 
explained to him that though experience — 
ten years' experience — was of the utmost 
practical value, a degree was absolutely 
essential from the parents' point of view. 
" They insist upon it," he had said, " in this 
class of school, at any rate, and the kind of 
school which has degreeless masters is not 
much use to a man who seems as energetic 
as yourself. If it is impossible for you to 
get a degree, I should advise you to forsake 
schoolmastering and to go out to the Colonies 
or to enter a commercial calling before it is 
too late. You look as if you had a great deal of 
vitality, and — you are only eight-and-twenty 
— there is plenty of chance for you yet." 

A commercial career for a man who had 
neither experience nor influence — or the 
Colonies — it was indeed a pleasant prospect 
for one who had just got engaged ! Lane 
was walking miserably up and down, the 
reverse of energetic ; his head was bowed, his 




shoulders were bent, and he looked utterly 
hopeless and crushed. 

Apperson — who was an abject moral 
coward — hurriedly turned away. But it was 
too late. As he caught hold of the handle of 
a first-class carriage, Lane, who had seen him, 
came up. 

" Good morning," he said. And then — 
eagerness and anxiety overcoming his diffi- 
dence — he added, hurriedly, " Have you read 
my book ? " 

" I have read your manuscript" 

" And is it worth anything ? " 

" I am afraid not. Indeed, I have just 
reported to that effect. It is not badly 
written, but it is absurdly romantic and lacks 
all knowledge of life ; though I think you 
may still make something of it if you put it 
away for a couple of years. You are going 
third, I suppose ? Well, we shall meet at 
Burnt Green Station. If you care to walk 
across the Green with me, I will tell you where 
the effort fails." 

Apperson got into his carriage and settled 
himself comfortably with his feet upon the 
cushions, for few people travel first on subur- 
ban lines at that hour of the day. Lane 
walked a little farther up the platform and 
entered a third and sat down. The train 
crawled for. forty minutes ; to him it might 
have been forty seconds or forty hours. He 
only knew that in common; decency to Irene 
he must break off his engagement and emi- 
grate without delay. The novel ? He blushed 
for it. Would to Heaven he had never 
delivered a bad piece of work into Apperson's 
critical hands ! 

Burnt Green Station. He got out — his 
carriage had stopped just opposite the exit — 
and he waited humbly till Apperson strolled 
up to him from lower down the train. Together 
they walked up the hollow, stone-slabbed 
corridor which emerges into Burnt Green 
Village beside the booking-hall and opposite 
the stationer's shop. 

They strode up the hill in silence — Apper- 
son, with his horror of situation, cursing his 
promise to discuss the novel ; Lane too 
conscious of its defects to wish to hear 
another word. They reached the crest. The 
Green lay outstretched before them ; and 
though the sight was too frequent a one for 
them to be conscious of its beauty, each of 
them — with the instinct to admire space and 
distance — looked directly ahead. 

And each of them gave a start. Before 
them, twenty-five yards off, on the pathway, 
two people were coming along. One was a 
girl in a silken, biscuit-coloured, sports coat, 

and the other was an immensely fat man. 
He was quite small, and equally gargantuan, 
and he wore a large white bowler hat and 
excessively clamant tweeds. He was talking 
and gesticulating, and his plump white hands 
were waving in accompaniment to his words. 
The man was Bunbury and the girl was 
Irene Baird. 

She saw Ronald from ten yards away. 
Her expression altered, and she fairly ran 
to his side. 

" Congratulations ! " she cried. " Con- 
gratulations ! They are going to publish 
your book ! " 

" Oh, no ; you mustn't deceive yourself. 
Mr. Apperson has just read it and says that 
it's no good." 

Irene laughed aloud. Ronald stared at her 
uncomprehendingly. Apperson stood amazed. 
Indeed, so amazed was he that he forgot 
respectability, reputation, horror of Bun- 
bury — and his instinct to be a snob. He 
stood listening, intent and open-mouthed. 

Irene, knowing nothing of his side of it, 
knew at least that explanation was necessary. 
She gave it without delay. 

" Mr. Bunbury has done it for you, Ronald ! 
Mr. Bunbury, this is Mr. Lane. I expect 
you know Mr. Apperson already, do you 

Ronald Lane looked at Bunbury; was 
measured and approved of, niched and 
docketed for reference by the twinkling, 
searchlight eyes. Then the little man turned 
to Apperson ; they stood regarding each 
other, two typical representatives of two 
utterly opposite types. And Bunbury's smile 
was wide. 

" Yes ; I used to know Mr. Apperson very 
well," he said.- " We were at school together 
— long ago." 

Then, still smiling, he turned back to 
Ronald Lane. His manner became pompous 
and theatrical. But it remained very gener- 
ous and kind. 

" I read your novel," he said, " and then 
I showed it to my old friend, Wilfred Becking- 
ham, who reads for Titus and Brown. He 
agreed with me that it was ultra-young and 
hyper-sentimental, but that's a fault that 
will mend. His firm don't think there's 
much money in it — though one never knows 
with a novel — and they won't make you any 
advance. But they are prepared to publish 
it, and to pay you a royalty of one-and-six 
$ copy after the book reaches the stage of 
profits — that's after the sale of four hundred 
and fifty to five hundred copies — and I 
advise you to leap at the chance. They are 



first-class people, and their imprint on the 
cover will do you a power of good-*' 

He paused, waved his hand to stop Ronald's 
gratitude, and then began again. But now 
those quick , keen eyes of his were resting 
not on Ronald but on Appcrson's angry face. 

" Meantime," he proceeded, u you cannot 
live on nothing, so I have taken the great 
liberty of finding you something to do. If 
you call on my old friend , ( Charley Rosen- 
busch, of the Mockbird> he is prepared to 
give you work as a reporter — if you are not 
too great a swell, Keep off the drink — I'm 
a fine one to preach, aren't I ? — and keep your 
eyes open and work. Many a good novelist 
has begun as a 
reporter— it's the 
best way of learn- 
ing life." 

He paused, fum- 
bled at his cigar- 
ette-c a s e , and 
struck a match 
with plump white 
fingers- Lane 
began to blurt out 
thanks. Bunbury 
very quickly cut 
him short. 

11 Thank me by 
being a man and 
doing what a man 
ought to do— that 
is, snatching hold 
of your chance 
like greased light- 
ning and following 
up your luck, and 
making yourself 
worth v of a verv 
charming girl. 
Take him away. 
Miss Baird, and 
tell him every- 
thing and what 
you dared because 
you loved. Come 
and see us, Lane, 
whenever you care 
to, and I'll help 
you all I can." 

He waved them 
off with his big 
white bowler hat. 
Then he took 
Apperson by the 
arm* He took 
him tightly. The 
path was crowded. 

Therefore the Suburban Blood — who died 
a fresh death every moment he was seen 
with Bunbury — did not dare to scuffle and 
drag his arm away. 

And, as they crossed the Green slowly, 
Bunbury gave a final stab. 

' We are all sentimentalists — if we only 
knew it, Apperson,' 1 he said, softly. 4t There 
is a chance for our sentiment here. Could 
there possibly be a happier augury ior the 
success of any marriage than that feeling 
which must exist in the heart of young Lane* 
now he knows that the girl of his choice has 
made his chance for him- -and adventured, 
to help her man ? " 


by t^iC 


going to publish QBgfr»«arrr 






Illustrated by Thomas Henry. 

T is commonly supposed that 
a Christian minister's life is 
somewhat sad and sombre, 
seeing that his calling deals 
with the more solemn things 
of life. But this is far from 
being the case, as the following 
incidents will show. Truly blessed is he who 
has the happy knack of viewing matters from 
their humorous aspect. This gift (for truly 
gift it is) saves many an awkward situation. 
Carlyle described humour as " the finest 
perfection of poetic genius." It is more, it is 
a great saver of nerves, and at once puts a 
man right with his fellows. 

I remember a distinguished preacher deliver- 
ing an eloquent sermon just after the celebra- 
tion of Queen Victoria's Jubilee in 1887. This 
divine held pronounced democratic views, and 
thought there had been an undue expendi- 
ture of money on these Jubilee celebrations. 
" Brethren," said he, in the course of a finely- 
delivered discourse, " I respect our beloved 
Queen ; I yield to no one in my admiration 
for her noble qualities of mind and heart. 
Her true motherly excellencies have endeared 
her to all her subjects. She has proved herself 
a wise ruler and a judicious administrator ; 
but, brethren, when all js said, she is only a 
woman, like myself." An audible titter went 
round the church, and the good man was so 
absorbed in his subject that he did not realize 
his " howler " until his wife drew his attention 
thereto on the way home from church. 

On another occasion the preacher was a 
young student who had been at college only a 
few months. During his sermon he had occa- 
sion to refer to the deaf and dumb. I ought 
to explain that this young fellow was both 
nervous and shy. Instead, however, of saying 
" the deaf and the dumb " he said, " the 


duff and the dem." Unlike the gentleman to 
whom I have just referred, he realized his 
mistake, and sought at once to correct it. 
And this is how he did so : " My — dear — 
ah — friends, I have — ah — made — ah — a mis- 
take. I did not — ah — mean to say— ah— 
' the duff and the dem.' What — ah— 4 really- 
meant — ah — to say was ' the dem and the 
duff.' " He left the matter there, the con- 
gregation immensely enjoying his inextricable 
twist of the tongue. 

Sometimes, however, the preacher has the 
presence of mind to liberate himself gracefully 
from an otherwise awkward situation. Special 
services were being held at a certain large 
church in one of our provincial towns. The 
interior of the building had been completely 
renovated at great cost. So, crowded congre- 
gations assembled on the occasion of the re- 
opening. Special hymn-sheets were being 
used, rather than the ordinary hymn-books. 
Judge of the surprise of the people when they 
heard the minister calmly announce : " Please 
leave the seats behind." Everybody smiled, 
and some laughed right out. The preacher, 
however, was not going to be caught napping. 
When the merriment had quite subsided, he 
added, " Yes, I mean what I say. Please 
leave the seats behind, for we shall require 
them next Sunday and afterwards." Then 
came another titter. " But this was not quite 
what I meant to say," went on the speaker. 
" What I really intended to announce was : 
Please leave the sheets behind, as we shall 
need them for this evening's service." 

It is remarkable how easily a parson can 
become confused in his utterances without 
perceiving it himself. The members of the 
congregation, however, hardly ever fail to 
observe the error. Here, for example, are a 
few howlers for which I can vouch : — 





u The choir will 
now he rendered by 
the anthem." 

11 Take off thy feet 
from off thy shoes." 

" Forbid t h a t I 
should ever become a 
cucumber of the 
ground JJ (meaning 

It should be ex- 
plained in regard 
to this that the 
offender was an 
untutored lay- 
preacher w h o 
stumbled out»f sheer 

But it would be 
hard to beat the 
following. A worthy 
layman was con- 
ducting special 
services at a small 
country town. He 
was an accountant 
by profession, and 

seemed unable^ even when at church, to 
leave his figures behind, for in announcing 
the three hundred and twenty-sixth hymn, 
he calmly gave it out as ** Hymn, three 
pounds two-and-six," It is difficult to 
imagine how, even with a sense of humour, 
he could extricate himself from this tangle. 

The necessity of people confining themselves 
to words which they can dearly understand 
was forcibly brought home to me one day 
when, during the course of a conversation with 
a poor, unlettered woman , I was informed that 
her son had become a soldier, and that he had 
joined the " Calvary.' 1 It was the same 
woman who did not quite appreciate the 
request of the borough surveyor to lessen 
the work of his men, for she did not see 
why she should be called upon to burn any 
" refuge." 

At a certain church there were unpleasant 
differences between the members of the 
choir and the stewards. The choir therefore 
resolved that on the following Sunday they 
would not take any part in the musical portion 
of the services. The minister— a man with a 
keen sense of humour— heard of this and 
calmly fortified himself for the occasion. 
Imagine the surprise of the choristers when 
the parson announced as the opening hymn 
that one which runs : " Come we that love 
the Lord." *' Kindly begin at verse three/' 
said he : — 

Let those refuse to sinfj 
Who never knew our 

God ; 
But children of the 

Heavenly King 
Must speak l heir joys 


This timely adap- 
tation of hymn to 
circumstance com- 
pletely justified itself, 
for the choir members 
saw the humour of 
the whole thing, and 
soon their rebellion 
was a thing of the 

Not long ago a 
young and bashful 
student was conduct- 
ing a Sunday-school 
class, which consisted 
of between forty 
and fifty little girls 
between three and 
five years of age. 
At the close he said, 
Cl Now, I want some 
of you to give me a short verse from the 
Bible;" There was tense stillness, " Come 
along , please/' said the student ; " I don't mind 
how short the verse is." Again there was no 
response. Just, however, as he was dismissing 


by Google 






the class, one of the 
smallest girls timidly 
raised her hand and, 
in a quivering voice, 
exclaimed, [t Please, 
sir, thou shalt not 
covet thy neighbour^ 
wife ! n 

It would be a 
good thing if every- 
one had the presence 
of mind of a Mr. C. 
Mr t C\ was invited to 
deliver a brief 
address on the occa- 
sion of a church 
anniversary tea. The 
tables were laden 
with good things, 
During the course of 
the s p e e c h j the 
speaker, using his 
arms pretty freely, 
upset a sugar-basin, 
so that the " nobs "' 
rolled all over the place. 
Naturally, the onlookers 
laughed heartily. Mr, C, 
however, was not in the 
least perturbed, and pro- 
ceeded quietly to remark, 
£[ I cannot help scattering 
sweetness wherever I go. 1 ' 
Further, for the next five 
minutes or so, he dwelt 
upon the necessity of 
Christian men and women 
everywhere avoiding every 
suspicion of sourness and 
aridity, so that a whole- 
some influence might be 
brought to bear upon 
others. Thus, what in the 
hands of an unhumorous 
person would have proved 
a disconcerting circum- 
stance, gave him a valu- 
able point in his address, 
which he used to fine ad- 

A friend of mine was 
conducting his mid-week 
service. It was in the South 
of England, where the sing- 
ing is hardly as robust as 
in the North. This par- 
ticular evening the hymns 
seemed to be drawled 



wishing to instil 
more life and en- 
thusiasm 3 spoke thus 
alter the first verse 
had been sung, *' I 
would be glad, dear 
friends, if you will 
please sing more 
heartily and rapidly." 
How lie felt when he 
read the following 
verse I hardly" know, 
but the people smiled 
a broad smile as they 

Tdl me the story slowly 
That I may take it in. 

It was in Norfolk 
that the follow ing 
incident took place. 
A lady's gold watch 
had been lost and 
found. It had been 
taken to the vicar, 
with the request that 
he should make an an- 
nouncement of the matter 
on the following Sunday. 
This he did, stating that 
upon application b e i n g 
made to him, accompanied 
by a description of the 
watch, it would be handed 
o ver . Then he i rn m ed ia tel y 
announced, " Let us sing 
hymn three hundred and 
sixty-two 1% ; — 

Lord, her watch Thy Chuich 
is keep iti£ . 

He must have been a bora 


What is wrong with the 
following, w h i c h w a 5 
uttered by an excellent 
preacher ? 

" Our prayer is that 
Heaven will bless those 
whom we love and those 
who arc loved by us/' 

The war is responsible 
for some H howlers." A 
parson with strong military 
views was re cent ly conduct- 
ing a wedding. And this 
is how he addressed the 
bridegroom r u Wilt thou 
have this woman for three 
vears or for the duration 

unusually. So the minister, -vet he will siK<s.fJ r jgj na | f^rfthe war ? " 






I have known some strange thin^ hap 
in regard to names. At a certain vacant 
church the names of four ministers who 
occupied the pulpit on successive Sundays 
were : Mr, Harper, Mr, Piper, Mr. Fidler, and 
Mr, Blow — truly a musical company. 

Another remarkable coincidence (if it can 
be so called) can be related, A certain church 
had four different ministers— at different times, 
of course. Here are their names, in the order 
of their ministry : Mr. Parkinson, Mr. Parkin, 
Mr. Park, and Mr. Parr. 

I know of an evangelist who, un- 
fortunately for him, has no sense of 
either music or humour. Yet he will 
sing. Not long ago he was conducting 
an open-air service. By the way, he 
is ^n excellent preacher, and it would 
be a good tiling both for him and for 
cithers if he stopped at this, On 
this particular evening he chose as 
the solo to be rendered the hymn, 
" Revive Thy work, O Lord." Every- 
body who knows this tune is aware 
that at the end of the first two lines 
of the refrain there are two notes 
which have to be sus- 
tained. This y however , 
is the way this musical 
evangelist rendered the 

Revive Thy work, O Lord 

-— Lord — Lord, 
White fie re to Thee we bow 

— ow — ow . 

j Needless to say tliis 
was too much for the 
crowd. Soon, a numher 
of boys came, imitating 
the barking of dogs. 
" Bow-ow-ow " was the 
order of the day. 

That it is not always 
safe to ask questions of 
children while delivering 
the now customary 
address to boys and 
girls at the Sunday 
morning service is ob- 
vious from an experi- 
ence which a friend of 
mine once had. He was 
speaking to them of 
the incident which re- 
lates how Joseph and 
Mary, having been 
warned^ took the young 
child and fled into 
Egypt for fear of Herod, 




" I wonder/ 1 said the 
preacher, (i if any of you 
boys or girls can tell 
me why Joseph and 
Mary fled into Egypt?" 
" Because/' said a thin, 
shrill voice, to the 
amazement of the 
minister and the amuse- 
ment of the people, 
1 ' hecau se they had n* t 
paid their rent ! " 

It was at a church 
not a hundred miles 
from Portsmouth that 
the following happened. 
The occasion was a 
P.S. A. (Pleasant Sunday 
Afternoon), which is 
usually of a more or less 
free and easy charac- 
ter. It should be 
explained that each 
Sunday afternoon a 
fish-hawker was in the 
habit of passing along 
the street in which this 
church was situated* 
His touting had con- 
siderably disturbed the 
F S A, - ites, who in 


by Vj*. 




consequence made representations to the 
police, and who in turn warned the hawker. 
This, however,, angered the old maiij who 
resolved to have his own back, which he 
accomplished more effectually than he knew. 
Two young women were rendering a duct 
on the afternoon in question, the refrain of 
which was ( 'Some 
day we'll say/' 
etc. At the word 
M say " there is a 
distinct and 
somewhat pro- 
longed pause. 

u Some day 
we'll My,* 9 ran^ 
out the soprano. 
** Some day we'll 
say/* echoed the 
contralto. Then 
a big raucous 
voice broke in 
upon the silence 
with the word 
" Winkles ! n 

The old man 
had had his re- 
venge after all 

Truly " a little 
knowledge is a 
thing/' as a 
somewhat con- 
ceited, seff-made 
man discovered 
not long ago. He 
was a source of 
no little trouble 
to those around 
him, for in his 
own opinion he 
could do everything better than anyone else. 
So bis minister thought he would give him an 
opportunity of displaying his genius. The day 
duly arrived. He was to address the boys 
and girls, and took as bis text, " Simon 
called Peter/' And this is how he began : — 

M My dear boys and girls, I want you to 
observe what my text says, Simon called 
Peter. Now you know who Simon was, and 
you also know who Peter was. Well, it was 
Simon who called Peter. I do not know where 
he was when he called him, but he called him, 

and that is enough. How much would have 
been lost if Simon had not called Peter. 
And Peter, you see, answered at once/ T etc., 
etc. And so the poor man proceeded to illus- 
trate the need of calling others, and the duty 
of responding. As may be imagined, the 
children kept up a continual grin. It was 

not until several 
months after- 
wards that this 
and self-made 
orator was dis- 
illusioned as to 
the real facts of 
" Simon called 
Peter.' 1 

A few years ago 
I gave an order 
to a tailor o( the 
old school for a 
pair of gaiters. 
He measured my 
calves carefully, 
and went home 
to do his work 
with an assurance 
born of ex- 
perience. Soon* 
he brought the 
gaiters along wi tli 
him. When I 
fitted them on T I 
found they would 
not meet. The 
old man looked 
at the gaiters .and 
then at my 
calves. Scratch- 
ing his head, as 
though he were 
probing some intricate problem of mathe- 
matics, he exclaimed : il Lor, sir s what a pity 
your legs ain't a bit smaller I T? Of course, it 
wasn't a pity that his gaiters were not a bit 

"' I know why God made Adam a man/* 
exclaimed a precocious little girl of five, to 
her mother s one day just before I called. 
"Why, my dear?" asked the mother* 
11 Because/' came the answer, M if God had 
made Adam a baby, Hu would have had to 
nurse him." 


We invite our readers to send us stories oj this kir.d which may have come within their own 
knowledge or experience, and such as are considered suitable will be published and paid for* 
Stories should be addressed: "Anecdotes," The Strand Magazine, Southampton Street , 

Strand, W,C. 

rv ^h r^nnnfi"- Original from 


HE Sub was the 
officer of the 
forenoon watch. 
From the fore- 
bridge of the 
cruiser he had 
seen through 
his glasses the tendril of smoke 
above the ragged horizon 
develop into a mast and funnel 
and the hull of a fleet carrier 
wallowing towards them 
through the Atlantic swell. 

4 Thank the Lord/* said the 
Navigator at his side, as the 
blunt bows grew near. ** Now 
we shall get a mail How long 
is it since the last ? M 

" Ten days/' replied the Sub, 
and pat his mouth to the voice- 
pipe* The cruiser hove to, and 
fr> r a while the two ships 
talked, as ships talk, rolling 
steadily in the trough of the 
swell And when apparently 

was no more to be kaid, 


the flags fluttered down, the 
semaphore closed with a slap, 
and the seaboats were lowered 
To and fro they plied across 
the shifting grey hummocks, 
ferrying stores from the carrier 
to the cruiser. From the alti- 
tude of the fore-bridge thev 

Digitized by 



Authtt of * l Jfttvai Qttatlans" < A fail Mi/>" tU\ 


Illustrated by E. S, Hodgson. 

looked the merest cockle-shells, those open naval cutters* 
with their complement of fifteen men and a boy apiece. 
The latter — the midshipman in charge — were perched beside 
their coxswains in the dicky of each boat, serene of 
countenance, competent and self-reliant, looking, perhaps 
on account of the huge lifebelts round them, smaller than 
they really were. At one moment the boats were climbing 
up the steep slope of a grey- hack, anon sliding precipitously 
into the hollow, with their oars working like the legs of 
deliberate water-beetles. 

They came alongside time after time, plunging in 




rigmal from 



showers of spray ; the thin voices of the mid- 
shipmen shouting orders rose above the plash 
of water j the clatter of the oars on the 
thwarts, and the noises o£ the sea, 

The forenoon had nearly passed when the 
second cutter finished her last trip and came 
alongside with the mail piled high in her 
stern sheets* The Suh ; leaning over the 
bridge rails, contemplated the bloated sacks 
a little wistfully. He hoped % T ery much 
that someone had remembered to write to 
him. No one had, last mail. There wasn't 
even a dun with his name on the envelope 
to rouse aflickerol interest when he scanned 
the letter-rack* He possessed few relatives, 
and his guardian was not of an epistolatnrv 
bent. He was a very lonely sailor indeed. 

He hoisted the sea boats to the customary 
accompaniment of shrilling pipes, the plaint 
of the blocks, and the exhila rating " Stump 
an' go with 'er, lads/* from the boatswain" s 
mate. The two ships concluded Mother 
brief conversation, and the carrier moved in a 
wide circle to the south. The Sub said some- 
thing down the voice -pipe : the telegraph men 
sprung to their handles, far below p in the engine- 
rooms the gongs rang, and the water under 
the stern broke into vortices and foam. 
Ihe cruiser 3 one of the grey sentinels of the 
Atlantic, resumed her slow patrol. 

His relief at one-bell greeted him with 
unusual lightheartedness, u What's the 
news ? JJ asked the Sub as they exchanged 
the mantle of responsibility: 

li There's a devil of a big mail," said the 
new-comer. Il Stacks of it ; and the port 
has come. , . . an' the Major's got another 
kid, so he's all right— course and speed on the 
slate ? AUa-litee } can do ! Oh, by the 
way, Timmins's brother's been scuppered at 
the Dardanelles, an' the Welsh miners are 
striking again like true Britons — — * The 
speaker picked up the dividers and bent over 
the chart. ki 'I here's a lot of news of sorts. 
You'd better carry on and get your mail/' 

" Right/' said the Sub, " 1 will." He 
descended the ladder with a linln stop, 
hurried aft along the upper deck, dived down 
a hatchway ; and arrived eventually at the 

The mingled odour of pea-soup, cabbage, 
and tobacco smoke greeted him as he entered. 
The occupants had finished lunch and were 
all engrossed in their mail : a sort of subdued 
rustling was the only sound in the mess. As 
the ship rolled; a heavy swell raced frothing 
past the thick glass of the tightly-clamped 
scuttles, shrouding the apartment each time 
in a greenish doom. 

Digged by L^OOQle 


The Sub strode to the letter-rack and seized 
the contents of the compartment labelled 
by his visiting-card; he gave one glance at 
the writing on each of the three envelopes, 
and emitted a snort whose concentrated 
bitterness caused the nearest midshipman 
to start, even in the middle of an eight-page 
letter from the fairest of his cousins, 

The Maltese steward (who claimed un- 
fathomed descent from one of the Knights 
Templar and had a slight squint), rushed 
in where an angel might have been excused for 
awaiting the trend of events. 

" Ow, Stgneti 1 ! Lonch — Tom Pepper Pot 
— Corn' beef— boir rice an' stoo' figs/' 

" Rub 'em in your hair, 1 ' retorted the Lord 
of Gunroom Destinies, and opened the first 
envelope. It was from his outfitter^ and 
assured him that his esteemed order for thick 
vests was to hand and would receive every 

With a brow of thunder the Sub sat down 
at the table and opened the second letter. 
A * Sir," it ran, M You may be wondering at this 
moment how to acquire a little cash with no 

security " The Sub cast it from him and 

opened the third. This was from an insur- 
ance agency, offering recklessly to insure 
his life regardless of the grave risks involved 
by his profession, subject to his obtaining the 
signature of (a) an intimate friend ; (b) a 
Justice of the Peace ; and (c) a vicar, to a 
eertificat]^j^^^f r wpfl not hopelessly addicted 





to drink, or the victim of any malignant 
or incurable dUease, Followed a list of 

Gloomily the Sub devoured Tom Pepper 
Pot (a fierce form of rechauffi known only 
to cooks of Maltese extraction) and eke 
stewed figs, washing them down with a glass 
of beer. To make matters worse the Assis- 
tant Paymaster insisted on reading the Punch 
jokes aloud, thus taking the edge off his 
enjoyment of the paper when the oppor- 
tunity came to collar it. The 
Midshipmen were all engrossed 
in their correspondence. The 
Assistant Clerk even had the 
temerity to giggle over some 
thing he was reading in a sup- 
pressed, fatuous manner. The 
Sub's cup of disgust ran over, 

Bring me a paper, 


commanded. The Junior Mid 
shipman brought one hastily. 

For a while the Sub read in 
silence, then he grunted, 

" Jove ! " he said aloud and 
his brow cleared. 

The A, P. had exhausted 
Punch and was casting about 
him for a fresh diversion, as 
an alternative to going to the 
office and writing up next 
quarter's ledger, 

11 What are vou looking so 

D igiiiz eoby Vj OO 2 It 

bucked about ? " he inquired. " Has someone 
died and left you a fortune ? J5 

The Sub chuckled. M Read that/' he said, 
and indicated a paragraph with his forefinger. 
The A. P. leaned over his shoulder and read 
aloud : — 

" I,ady> good letter-writer } cultured and 
witty t would like to correspond with lonely 
sailor —Address A\ R. £., Box 177." 

11 Oh, that's nothing/' he said ; " I can 
find you lots more, if that's all you want to 
make you happy,' 1 He collected a pile of 
japers and scanned the agony columns. 
il Here you are: ' Sympathetic literary lady 
would write regularly to lonely sailor to help 
beguile tedium of his unceasing vigil/ What 
do you go on that ? " 

'* Very nice/' said the Sub. " Any more ? n 

" * Lady would like to write to lonely sailor. 
Prefers to exchange photographs as a pre- 
liminary' " 

11 Would she ? M observed the Sub- " Well, 
well ! " 

" They're all piffle/' said the Senior Mid- 
shipman, growing interested and abandoning 
the despatches from Flanders in favour of 
something with a more human touch about it, 
" They're codes thieves use. But you run 
work out any code there is in lime ; my 
brother at the Admiralty told me." 

" Thank you/' said the A, P. ; "I get all 
the decoding I want on the after-bridge. 
Fourteen months of it in three watches is 
good enough for me, without putting in a bit 
in the dinner-hour." 

The Sub waved the cynics aside, (l Rot ! 
Thieves be Mowed ! Don't you realize what 

OF HIS UNcdfl^ffl^^F&hf 




this means ? 1 am the lonely sailor of com- 
merce, Nobody writes to me except outfitters 
and insurance touts. Why shouldn t they 
write to rue ? " 

" They're probably old and ugly/ 1 hazarded 
the Senior Midshipman, 

" You'd have to write to T ern all first/' 
supplemented the A. P, Letter-writing, as 
he knew, was not the Sub's strong point. 
The Senior Midshipman had an inspiration. 
** Why not switch O'Hara on to the job ? 
He used to write poetry for the Dartmouth 
Magazine — make him write to 'em/' 

** Not a bad idea/' said the Sub, approv- 
ingly ; (i not l>ad for you at all. Where is the 
young devil ? *' 

4( In the school-place. We've got a make- 
and-mend* this afternoon/' 

The Sub gathered the papers in a bundle 
under his arm and proceeded to the school- 

As the Senior Midshipman had said, it 
was a make-and-mend afternoon. Two young 
gentlemen lay upon the table in profound 
slumber. A third sat astride the form with 
a box of paints and a tumbler of water in front 
of him, engaged upon a highly -coloured repre- 
sentation of a naval art ion, destined to adorn 
his journal. Two more were rolling on the 
deck in an endeavour to prove to each ol tier's 
satisfaction that 
you can never put 
a double -Nelson 
on a fel!ow r as 
long as he has the 
free use of his 
arms. The sixth 
was cleaning the 
parts of a tele- 
scope with a 
coloured poi kel- 

The Sub came 
upon this idyllic 
scene like a 
shadow across 
a magic - lantern 
screen* When he 
departed a feu- 
minutes later the 
yoke of* enforced 
literary compo- 
sition lay upon 
the neck of the 
painter of battle- 

• Th* naval equivalent 
to i\ half*liinlict;Ly- 

scenes. He was a red -headed youth, with 
eyes of a dangerous grey set wide apart in 
a freckled face, 

if VVho ever heard of such swish ? '' he 
demanded , rinsing his brushes and giving 
them a valedictory suck before returning 
them to the box, *' I've a jolly good mind to 
see him bio wed first/' 

The others eyed him contemplatively. 
Then the owner of the telescope, moved per- 
haps by memories, perchance the victim of 
a vivid imagination; stirred a little uncom- 
fortably in his seat, li Spose M he began, 

and wus silent, 

The imperceptible movement was not lost 
on the red-headed one. 

" Well — — ' he said ; il Anyhow, it's about 
the pink limit "—and begun groping in his 
locker for bis pen and ink. 

The Sub was crossing the afl-deck on the way 
to his cabin when he met a wardroom servant 
carrying a letter. " This 'ere was put in the 
wardroom by mistake^ sir. It's for you/* 

The Sub took the missive, gave one swift 
glance at the handwriting, and put it in his 
pocket. * l Thank you," he said, quietly, and 
made off to his cabin. He drew the curtain 
and flung himself into the depths of a battered 
wicker arm-chair. Then with a hand that 

by Google 

I'VE BROCGHT^flUjflgjV^^QSE letters/ saiq the 




was somehow not quite at its normal steadi- 
ness he filled and lit a blackened meerschaum. 
Finally he drew the letter from his pocket 
and sat turning it over and over, with an 
expression in his eyes not one of his shipmates 
had ever surprised there. After a while he 
slowly opened the envelope and read the con- 
tents four times in succession before returning 
it to his pocket and composing himself for an 
afternoon's slumber. 

It was an hour later when there came a light 
tap at the cabin door. The curtain was 
drawn back and a head and shoulders thrust 
into the interior. The Sub opened one eye 
and cocked it at the intruder. 

" I've brought you down those letters," said 
the Red-headed Midshipman. He held out 
the fruits of an hour's literary ardours. 

" What letters ? " asked the Sub, drowsily. 

" About you being lonely," replied the Red- 
headed Midshipman, " an' wanting people to 
write to you." 

41 Take 'em away," commanded the Sub ; 
" and don't come boring me. I'm busy ! " 
He closed his eye again and resumed his 
slumbers. The Red-headed Midshipman with- 
drew and pulled the curtain across the door. 
For a moment he stood looking at the master- 
pieces in his hand. It was bad enough to 
have been compelled to waste a make-and- 

Vol. li. -26. 



mend afternoon in the abhorred exercise of 
letter-writing, but to realize after all that the 
labour was in vain — that it had merely been 
a senseless whim of the Sub's — filled him 
with a wrathful sense of injustice. Slowly he 
retraced his steps to the school - place, his 
eves hard as flint and his mouth set. 
'"Well?" inquired his brethren. " Did 
he sign 'em ? " 

The red-headed one shook his head. " No," 
he replied, shortly. He walked to his locker 
and put the masterpieces carefully away. 
" It's my first dog watch, too, an' I've wasted 
all the blooming afternoon for nothing." 

Somewhere on deck a bell rang sharply 
seven times. 

" It's tea-time, anyway," said a friend, 
soothingly ; " come an' split a tin of bangers.* 
We'll fry 'em on the stove." 


The occupant of the hammock nearest the 
wardroom door had just turned in, and lay 
on his back with his feet against the transverse 
beam overhead, swaying his hammock back- 
wards and forwards. The throb of the engines 
far below and the monotonous footfall of the 
sentry combined to make a sort of lullaby. 
Through the ventilator at the top of the 
wardroom bulkhead came the drone of voices 
and an occasional burst of laughter. The 
Red-headed Midshipman grew sleepy, and 
lowered his feet as a preliminary to wriggling 
between the blankets. He had a night-in, and 
was going to make the most of it. 

Then someone came out of the wardroom, 
leaving the door ajar. Conversation, hitherto 
a desultory murmur, became distinct and 
intelligible. The Red-headed Midshipman lay 
listening drowsily. 

They were rotting the Major about some- 
thing. For a while the trend of the chaff 
remained a little obscure. The Padre was 
being very sly, and the Major appeared to 
be standing drinks under protest. The Red- 
headed Midshipman grew interested. 

The Major of Marines was no doubt all 
that could be desired as husband and father. 
But as a messmate it is to be feared that he 
was a trifle heavy. Domesticity, as he un- 
wearyingly painted it, almost assumed the 
proportions of a vice ; and once a year or 
thereabouts he used to puff out his chest and 
talk grandiloquently about being a Bulwark 
of the State, what time his bored messmates 
took it out of him in whiskies and sodas. 

He was puffing out his chest on this par- 
ticular evening. The Red-headed Midshipman 
UNIVlKjI It Lifs.WUgliKjAN 



lay listening for a long time ; then, as if 
acting on a sudden impulse, he lowered him- 
self out of his hammock, a smile hovering 
about the comers of his mouth. Bending 
low beneath the hammocks of his sleeping 
brethren he pattered forward to the school - 
place. There he took down from his locker 

" Jolly having a wife who writes five or 
six different handwritings/' commented the 
Navigator , handing him the pile. " I should 
start with that pink one on top. Major." 

" And bags I the envelope to put under my 
pillow afterwards;' added the Young Doctor, 
sniffing appreciatively. t4 Reminds me of 
Co vent Garden, somehow *r another/ 1 

The Major, looking bewildered, scanned 
the sheaf of correspondence in Ins hand. 


j've never seen the woman in my life/ 


the six unsigned letters, his bottle of ink, and 
the mightiest of all weapons in the hand of 
the oppressed. 

Five minutes later he had slipped the 
letters, stamped and addressed, into the post- 
box on the aft-deck* hoisted himself into his 
hammock again, and fallen straightway into 
guileless sleep. 


The mail had come and the corporal of the 
wardroom servants entered the wardroom 
with the letters. The members gathered 
round the table to assist in sorting operations. 

Those present seized theirs and arranged 
the remainder in piles according to name. 
At Halloa j Major I M exclaimed the First Lieu- 
tenant , u have you got a birthday ? 11 any 
happy returns of the day." 

The Major snorted proudly. " Ha/ 1 he 
puffed, approaching the table complacently, 

M-T devoted correspondent, the wife. 
My dear fellow, I assure you-^ ?J 

lt The wife/ 7 he began, feebly , like a fakir 
reiterating a charm, and opened the pinkest 
of the missives. A photograph fell out on to 
the deck. The astonished Major picked it 
up and held it at an arm's length. '* Good 
Lord ! " he gasped, and then again in a voice 
husky with emotion, 4b Good Lord ! n 

The mess eyed him with solemn reproach 
that threatened every instant to explode into 
unrestrained laughter. ,( I swear," said the 
Major, aghast. ** My dear fellows, I swear — 
on my honour— I've never seen the woman 
in my life/' His eyeglass fell with a tinkle 
against the buttons of his rotund tunic. 

It was some moments before the mess, 
grovelling on settees, gasping for breath in 
the arm- chairs and rocking on each other's 
necks, were capable of speech. Then the 
Navigator with difficulty found the means of 

11 Oh, M^pg i *|^jfcpo J h"i he spluttered. bi If 

forget there was a war. 




T seems such a Lung time since 
I took my first dancing lesson , 
and I began so young that 
to-day I almost feel us if my 
whole life had been one per- 
petual dance, But I could 
scarcely wish for a more 
pleasant fate, as, to those who love their art, 
the hard work necessary to enable them to 
give of their best does not really seem work 
at all. It is a real pleasure, to be enjoyed 
step by step as one becomes more skilful 
in mastering its intricacies. 

If I may claim to have attained some 
success as a dancer I attribute it, first , to 
the fact that I started very young, and, 
secondly, to my temperament, which has 
enabled me to " stick to my dancing-shoes " 
and work with the thoroughness which 
dancing demands from its devotees. 

I am not sure whether details of my early 
training are likely to prove of particular 
interest to readers of The Strand Magazine, 
but, in view of the growing popularity of 
dancing, I would mention that I took my 
first lesson at the age of eight from my uncle, 
Alexandre Genee, who was a famous dancer 
and, at one time, a theatrical manager in 

At the age of nine I made my first appear- 
ance on the stage in Norway at Chris tiania, 
and although before I went on I was fearfully 
nervous, when once I had fared the footlights 

I had lost every trace of nervousness — and 
for the lime being, at any rate, I felt quite at 

IJutj alas ! youthful confidence, especially 
very youthful confidence, almost invariably 
passes away in an unpleasantly short time- 
more often than not to he replaced by nervous- 
ness amounting almost to fear. In my case 
this was so, at any rate, for at the age of 
fourteen I remember lying awake throughout 
the whole of one night firmly determined to 
give up dancing altogether, simply and solely 
because I felt I should never prove able to 
master the art of pantomime. 

"What chance has a dancer of proving a 
success if she cannot mime ? 5> I asked myself 
time after time through the long hours of 
that never-to-l>e-forgottcn night — and at 
night every hour one lies awake seems almost 
a lifetime, " None at all— but I don't myself 
mind giving up my career, 51 I thought, " if 
only tt were not for the terrible disappointment 
it will cause my uncle/' 

A few days later, after working harder than 
ever to improve my " miming/' tired and 
dispirited at the end of my long morning's 
work, I broke down altogether and, resting 
against my unsympathetic practice-liar, 1 
burst into tears ; and so t sobbing her heart 
out, my uncle found an almost heartbroken 
niece a lit tie. later. 

To this W^SKtlffiVftr forget his wonderful 
sy mtyhHU£ Robl'frl&F M£ttl4A l Hgrateful enough 



•for his tenderness, almost womanly in its 
gentle understanding. Taking me in his 
arms, he told me little by little, as he pressed 
me close, of the long, weary weeks, months, 
and years of training he had gone through 
before his master had passed him as even 
worthy of appearing in public. " At Christi- 
ania, little girl/' he said, " you did well, 
wonderfully well, at the age of nine ; at the 
age of nineteen, if you go on working as you 
have been working, you will have built the 
foundation of a name which will be a household 
word in every corner of the world where the 
art of dancing is understood. " 

Of course, this encouraging prophecy put 
new heart into me and cheered me up more 
than mere words can express, and from that 
moment I started to work harder and harder, 
gradually getting every muscle well trained 
and in perfect condition, until I was told I 
might " try again in public/' with the result 
that I am proud to say that I appeared with 
some considerable success as prima ballerina 
at Copenhagen. 

That first real success proved the turning- 
point in my career, for afterwards engage- 
ments flowed in freely, and as time went on I 
appeared in opera at almost every leading Con- 
tinental city, in many famous ballets, includ- 
ing " Faust," " Les Huguenots," " Robert 
le Diable," and many other operas, including 
" Coppelia," by Delibes, which, I would 
mention, is quite one of my favourite ballets. 

I suppose each and every one of us suffers 
from some sort of vanity. Personally, until I 
received the following note from an admirer 
I thought I was free from this besetting fault, 
but as I have carefully kept the note, and as 
it still remains one of my most treasured 
possessions, my conscience has convinced me 
that I am not. 

As you may possibly know, although my 
name is French, I am a pure Dane — hence, 
probably, my appreciation of this charmingly- 
expressed billet-doux. " Mademoiselle/' it 
runs, " I am proud to salute so distinguished 
a Dane. Your country has indeed much to 
be proud of — she has sent England a great 
queen, honoured and beloved by all ; she has 
also sent us a great dancer." 

But I mention this merely by the way and 
to lead up to a most memorable incident — 
namely, that it was as Coppelia that I had 
the honour of dancing before our beloved 
Dowager Queen Alexandra, her Royal father, 
the King of Denmark, and a very distinguished 
company at Copenhagen a short time before 
I made my first appearance in England, now 
%t my home from home/' 

That most wonderful evening I could not 
forget if I would, for carefully hidden away 
among the treasures I love and really prize 
in life is a wreath of laurels — some people 
have told me that to-day the leaves look some- 
what faded, but to me they will always look 
as fresh and green as ever — a gift from Queen 
Alexandra. Can you wonder at the care and 
solicitude I still take to keep fresh the youth 
of a gift which, maybe, is growing old in years, 
but to me will be ever young ? 

When first I came to England to appear 
at the Empire, the engagement was made for 
six weeks. Exactly how long it lasted I 
could .not tell you, but I remember that on 
the tenth anniversary of my appearance at 
that famous home of ballet I received a 
reception which proved to me beyond all 
manner of doubt that I could pride myself 
on having, in some small degree, proved of 
assistance in popularizing the art of dancing. 

To a certain extent, however, in this there 
should be no cause for surprise, for in England 
— or perhaps I should say in London — there 
is by no means so favourable an opportunity 
of " making good " in ballet as there is on 
the Continent, where in Petrograd and other 
leading cities there is a special school where the 
art of dancing is taught and where children 
are initiated into its mysteries at a very early 
age, with the result that, provided they show 
promise, they are in due course almost certain 
to find suitable openings in opera. 

These classes are held at the Opera House 
itself, and deportment, music, and physical 
training are given to each and every pupil, 
to enable them to master the art of gesture* 
It therefore naturally goes without saying that 
the result of so thorough a training is reflected 
in the Continental ballet, which may be com- 
pared, perhaps not inaptly, to a perfectly- 
drilled and well-disciplined regiment. In 
England, when a dancer leaves the ballet, she 
leaves her salary behind her. But on the 
Continent all who have been employed at a 
Royal Opera House for a certain time are 
entitled to a pension. 

My first appearance before Queen Alexandra 
in my beloved Denmark naturally stands out 
most clearly in my memory, but since those 
far-away days I have appeared before almost 
every member of the Royal Family, including 
the late King Edward, King George,and Queen 
Mary, and many other crowned heads at 
charity and other performances. 

After a lengthy sojourn in London, I re- 
ceived a number of offers to appear abroad, 
and, at one time and another, I may claim to 
have tffifftfcfft flptiffigffin etimes for 


pleasure, but, as a general rule, for pleasure 
combined with work. Thus, quite recently 
1 have been touring in the United States and 
in Australia. This meant work, and ateo 
spelt long days of travel in Pullman cars — and 
from the interior of the Pullman ear one does 
not get a very keen insight into the manners 
and customs of a country. 

During my Australian tour I 
experienced a somewhat exciting 
adventure. Being compelled by 
force of engagements to travel 
a long way from town to 
town necessarily 
means that on 
occasions one may 
also have to cut 
things rather line. 
This time I had arrived 
at Melbourne the same 
afternoon that I was due to 
appear there at night. The 
moment I arrived at the theatre 
the manager, with genial coun 
te nance , informed me that the 
house was sold out and that 
the company was waiting 
to rehearse. 

So far so good. When 
I went on the stage , 
however, I found the 





orchestra and conductor waiting for me— but 
without a single band part. Messengers were 
dispatched post-haste here and there to try to 
trace the missing parts, but, despite the almost 
Sherlock Holmes sense of all, the two trunks 
in which they had been packed were not 
forthcoming, and finally it was decided that 
no performance could be given either that 
evening or on Monday afternoon. 

But even missing trunks cannot hide 
themselves for ever, and, mercifully, 
the precious music did put in an ap- 
pearance a few hours before the evening 
performance on Monday. I n e e d 
scarcely say, however, that i was 
somewhat nervous as to the reception 
I should receive after having proved 
the indirect, if innocent, means of 
disappointing the public on two occa- 

And I felt all the more nervous be- 
cause the management had told 
me that they had received 
a whole batch of letters 
from intended Saturday 
evening visitors ex- 
pressing their disap- 
pointment, some- 
times politely, 
hut more than 
once somewhat 

Thus, one 

man wrote 

that " he 

had only 

paid a 




guinea for two stalls, which sum however, 
is a trifle." His letter ended up^ " and 
I am not worrying about that a little bit. I 
do protest, however, that the return of the 
price of the seats is poor compensation to a 
man who has paid twenty guineas for a new 
evening dress for his wife so that she may 
not disgTace the stalls ! " 

Happily, however, my (ears proved un- 
founded, for the moment I appeared on 
the stage I received a tumultuous wel- 
come, and at the fall of the curtain 
in Melbourne I was accorded no 
fewer than fifteen " calls, 51 which 
might almost have been ex- 
tended indefinitely had not the 
management rung down the 
fire-eurtain — that relentless, 

eye to say where the difference comes in. 
But be that as it may, were one to bring all 
the ballet-dancers of the world together it 
would almost inevitably be found that each 
and every one had had the same rigorous 
conventional training, and that all dance in 
the same way with the same steps. It is 
only after a grounding which gives perfect 

inexorable token 
that 4t all is over," 

I have often been 
asked j by the way 
whether I think that a 
national school of ballet- 
dancing would prove an 
influence for good in further- 
ing the art. It is possible, 
of course, that this might 
be so, but I scarcely think 
it likely, for, although 
there is a popular idea 
that the R ussian 
schools and others 
have developed from 
the national dances 
of the people, I am 
inclined to think 
that this point of 
view is somewhat 
wide of the truth. 
Why ? Simply be- 
cause it seems to 
me that the charac- 
ter of the nation exercises an almost 
predominating influence on its 

The Slavs us dancers unrin'.i 
differ from Northern people, difficult 
though it may be to the uncultured 

IN "A 


I'Jwtv. Ihtffk (etiL 

mastery that a dancer can 
show real individuality, 
Touching on the future 
of English dancers, it is 
surely to be re- 
gretted that so 
many promising 
exponents of the 
art not only want 
to appear in public 
too soon, but prac- 
tically msist on it, 
This, I think, is in no 
Mnall measure due to the fact 
that many parents seem to show a 
keen wish for their children to earn 
money after they have been practis- 
ing only a few months. 

Proud fathers and mothers fondly 
imagine that 

A^Sr'A^'l^iA these promising 

UNlftl^aaiOIGjfcWb-for the 

Wwiii M^itu stwtw*, ait of male 


raceful lady called one day and in languid tones ex- 
pressed a desire to lake some lessons. " I .suppose/' 
she saidj " one can learn all there is to learn in — 
well, three months ; that is, by taking two lessons 
of an hour a week ? " 

She was politely informed that to attain excel- 
lence at the art it would be necessary to practise 
considerably longer than that, However, after 

exp ress ing surprise 

and disbelief, she 

took twelve lesson s ? 

at the end of which 

time she departed 
perfectly happy 
in the belief 
that she 
was a per- 
fect mis- 


t'koto, MeSeit studw* 

dancing in Eng- 
land is but little 
known — can be- 
come perfect if 
they commence to 
take a few lessons 
at the age of 
fourteen or fif- 
teen , whereas ? if 
they are really to 
obtain thorough 
mastery over the art, they 
should start at eight or nine. 

Ballet - dancing, properly 
understood, is almost the most 
exacting of hiidi arts, demand- 
ing the utmost devotion from 
the artiste, and the sooner the 
public realizes this the better it will be 
for them, for the artiste, and her work 
There is no other art which requires 
such constant association between 
the artiste and the teacher. All 
we dancers who take our art 
seriously return at intervals to 
have those faults corrected which 
unconsciously we contract j and, in my own 
case, for years and years I used to look for- 
ward to practising with my uncle and aunt 
who were my only real teachers. 

There are a thousand and one little faults 
which beginners will invariably make. Toes 
are pointed wrong, likewise the heels, while 
the body is poised awkwardly, and the head 
—well, I could almost fill a quire of foolscap 
paper were I to enumerate the various pitfalls 
into which the ignorant are liable to fall. 

A rather amusing incident occurred at a 
school of dancing some time ago, A tallj 









fhota, Jkmr fit 

of the art, and 
her last words 
were : (i Well, 
if the worst 
comes to the 

worst, I can now be sure of getting a berth 
as premiere danseuse, 7 I sincerely hope that 
" the worst will not come to the worst/' for 
the lady's sake ? if she is still relying on her 
ahiliiv to wilrh the world with her dancing. 

Which reminds, me. that I am frequently- 
asked whetrPF'S'^MSPWiat the dancers of 
to-day UWVEfiijWlf 'if M&tiHGftJ'J the famous 




Photo. MvffH Studios 

Tagliom, Elssler, Cerito, Lucille Gruhn. 
Carlotta Grisi, and others of the famous 
fashionable era of Italian opera-ballet. 

Why not? We liave schools' of the same 
kind as they and can do more difficult steps 
— we can do three pirouettes to their one. 
Years ago I learnt how to do an entrechat of 
six crossings — indeed, in one dance shortly 
after I appeared at the Empire I did sixteen 
entrechats of six crossings each. 

This reminds me that since the time of 
Taglioni some inches of skirt and fluffy 
petticoats have gone. Why? Who desires, 
this change ? The dancer is responsible, and 
the fact that she takes the responsibility 
surely suggests that her art is on the up-grade. 

Technique improves, axvA the technically 
skilled do not like to hide their lights — or ? 
to be accurate anatomically, their legs — - 
under a bushel of muslin or so, Argue as 
you may, you cannot convince the really 
trained dancer that her lines are more graceful 
w ? hen her skirt is comparatively long and lies 
close than when it suggests a bird-cage, 

I could write a solid book on my favourite 
pastime. Perhaps one day I may. I sin- 
cerely trust, however, that these few rambling 
reminiscences of a real enthusiast may not 
have proved without interest. 
Some little time ago I had di Itobidfare- 

? -W& 



well to the great-hearted British public. But 
of a sudden, the greatest crisis in the world's 
history happened upon us all, and, as one of 
the Governors of Charing Cross Hospital, I 
have returned to the stage until the time shall 
arrive when I may give a fitting fare we H 
performance in aid of the funds of a great 
institution which I pray may be the means of 
conjuring back to health and strength many 
a hero now fighting our battles. 

If health j age, or other drawbacks have 
debarred you from doing your bit in this 
great crisis^ilidNnalrffattn relv upon you to 
d0 ia^ERSYW-DPftlttMflS^fl^Hi ? 



Illustrated by Charles Pears. 


DO not wish to say how far a 

man who is fond of his joke 

should go, but I do say this — 

that there is a limit ; and 

when it comes between you 

and the young lady for whom 

you are beginning to have 

feelings of a certain kind then it ceases to be 

a joke, and the time has come to put your 

foot down and let them know it. 

Look at what happened to Nora and me. I 
had been making up my mind for the better 
part of three months, and we had as good as 
agreed that it could be managed on thirty- 
five shillings a week, with the early prospect 
of another five, when, just at that moment, 
as we were, so to put it, almost within 
the sound of wedding bells, the blow fell. 

It was at a picture-show that the bomb 
exploded. It costs something to take a young 
lady about to entertainments of that class, 
with chocolates to go on with, and maybe 
an ice to follow, but when the hidden spark 
in a man's breast bursts into a flame he looks 
upon sixpence, or even a shilling, practically as 
if it were nothing at all. 

We were in the sixth row — fourpenny 
seats. We had just seen about a baby what 
fell over a cliff, and would have been drowned 
had it not been for what I should describe 
as a series of miraculous events. We were 
waiting for the next, and the screen was 
dark. ; 

".What's coming ? " asked Nora, in what 
. you might call half a whisper, as she put 
another chocolate : into her -mouth, .It's 
wonderful how a girl can -eat chocolates. I 
had nearly made up my mind that one day, 
if I could afford it, I would find out-how much 
Nora really could eat — try it once, if never 
again. I am of an inquiring turn of mind, I 
am. I told her what I thought was coming. 

" A comic," I said. " You wait and 
you'll see." 

Then Nora did see. 

The Kiss that 

Failed — being the Comical History of the 
Mistake which Bobby Made. 

Vol. U.-27. 

by L^OOgle 

Of course, Nora fastened on the name 
immediately — she naturally would. 

" Bobby ! Your name ! Do you see it ? " 

" Being able to read, and the print large 
size, I do not see how I can help it, though 
. I'd have - you know that my name's not 

As Miss Dickinson well knew, I was 
christened Robert. I can put up with Bob, 
but Bobby Is softish, and when it comes to 
that 1 draw the line. 

" But why ? " she asked. " I never can 
understand. Bobby's as good as Bob; I'm 
not sure I don't like it better." 

Before I could so much as open my 
lips to reply the picture began. There was 
thrown upon the screen a man's head, and 
I felt as if something must have happened 
to me. A little disturbed I suppose I was 
by what Ijwill describe as Miss Dickinson's 
manner, which was perhaps why, directly 
I saw that head upon the screen, I felt as if 
someone had knocked the stuffing out of me. 

Looking at me was my own face on the 
screen ! 

No larks, no humbug, no lies, no nothing — 
just the truth ! There was me sitting in the 
sixth row of the fourpenny seats, and there 
was my face staring at me from the screen. 
No ,6ne knows what emotion can be like till 
a thing happens to him like that. 

" Bob ! " said Nora, with a gulp which I 
-knew., was caused by having swallowed a 
chocolate whole. 

I said nothing. There was nothing to say. 
If there had been I couldn't have said it. 
There was a big, round face staring at me 
from the screen, and though it wasn't by any 
means a flattering likeness there was no 
mistaking who it was. I had on a bowler 
hat, worn a little on one side, as is the latest 
West-end fashion. I took it off, I tipped the 
audience a wink, I opened my mouth — widish 
— I put out my tongue 

I was shocked. I really was positively 
shocked — I might almost say horrified. 
I certainly thought Nora Dickinson would 




have been ■ instead of which, while I felt 
that I should have to get up and leave the 
hall because the manners of that face were 
so disgusting, she began to snigger, then to 
titter, then to laugh, and then to roar. But, 
mind you, so did everybody else. And 
just because, so far as I could judge, 
a great head on the screen was pulling 
the most disgusting faces I have ever seen. 
Suddenly the head disappeared, 

M Oh, Bob ! " gasped Nora — she seemed 
Ui be in trouble with her breathing. ;i Did 
you ever see anything so funny ? Isn't it 
like you ? " 

The idea of her suggesting that .she had 
ever known me behave as that head had 
done, especially considering the extra careful 
way I always had behaved in her presence, 
was a little too much. But before I could so 
murh as tell her so the real picture began. 

There was a sitting-room on the screen. 
I had a sort of horrid idea that I had 
set-n it somewhere before. Into this 
sitting-room I came, my hat on my head 
again, and looking as if f was wondering 

where I was. Presently a young lady came 
into the room. She tip-toed lo where I was, 
coming on me from behind. She put her arms 
round my neck, drew my head backwards, 
twisted my face round, and she kissed me. 

No one who knows me can deny that 
delicacy is one of my strongest features. 
Therefore it will be understood how far it is 
from my wish to brag about the way in which 
that young lady kissed me. I will merely 
mention that her lips were still glued to mine 
when the door at the back of the room was 
opened again, and a male person entered, 
I write M male person " because, as will 
presently be seen, no one who witnessed 
his behaviour could describe him as coming 
within a hundred and fifty miles — and I may 
say fart he r — of being a gentleman. He was 
taller than I was, and broader. I may add 
that generally he was built on coarser lines. 
His conduct showed it. Instead of pausing, 
as a sensible person would have done, and 
asking for an explanation of what was taking 
places he came striding forward, right to the 
front, ^ |V ^^^^-^much as a 






single word he raised his hand and struck 
me full in the face. Once, and then again, 
and then a third time ; at the third blow 
I went down like an ox that is felled. I never 
attempted to defend myself, not even by 
moving so much as a single muscle. That 
^irh she took her arms away and moved 
aside^ and allowed that ruffian to take pot- 

shots at me as if ,L were a 
me'ch an ical figure. Of 
course, I went down ; any- 
one would have gone down, 
with a scoundrel hammering 
at his face like that. It 
was a horrible sight/ I ex- 
pected that Miss Dickinson's 
blood would have turned 
cold. The people screamed 
— -with laughter, mind you, 
as if there was any tiling 
funny in seeing a man 
knocked down as if he were 
a ninepin — and she screamed 
with them. 

Directly I was down I 
raised my head and looked 
round, as if I was wonder- 
ing where I was, and the 
people, including Miss 
Dickinson., . screamed again, 
as if it were the funniest sight 
they ever had beheld. The 
young lady spoke to me as if 
she would offer me sympathy. 
So soon as she did that the 
brawny villain took me by 
the collar of my coat and 
lifted me on to my feet, and 
as soon as he had got me 
on my feet he picked me 
up with both hands and 
used me as if I were a 
football, kicking me through 
the air right from one side 
of the room to the other. 
And just as I got there the 
door opened a second time, 
and I came right in the face 
of another ruffian who 
thought proper to enter at 
a moment which was most 
inconvenient for me. He 
never stopped to ask me if 
1 had done it on purpose, 
or how I happened to be 
there just then ; he just let 
fly at me, first with one fist 
and then with the other. 
And he hit me hack to the 
fellow who had kicked me there. That 
was a pretty game. They kept kicking me 
back from one to the other as if I were 
just a plaything. Then a third person entered, 
and I was thrown against him. 

He didn't stop to hit me— nothing of the 
kind. He just caueht me up somehow. 

das, nfeEM? fctai* and dropped 




me into the street. I came down on a coster's 
barrow which happened to be passing, face 
foremost, sending his stock of goods all over 
the place. He picked me up and threw me 
at a bus. landing me on the top, bang against 
a passenger just as he was getting up. He 
caught me and threw me on the top of a house 
which was just handy. Some workmen on 
the roof of the house, not seeming to care 
for my being there, threw me from one to the 
other — there seemed to be about a mile of 
them — till, in their excitement, they brought 
down the scaffolding on which they were 
supposed to be working with a crash, with me 
underneath and all the rest of the traffic — 
there was a tremendous lot of traffic, pan- 
technicons, and motor-cars, and steam lorries 
— as well. On the top of the pile there seemed 
to be about two thousand people. They began 
to fight with each other, and to hunt for 
what was underneath. And by degrees they 
got me out. You never saw such a spectacle 
as I presented. Then after a second or two 
the people in the hall, including Miss Dickin- 
son, began to see that it really was me. 
There I was, all mud and bruises and blacking, 
with my clothes all anyhow. And there was 
the young lady who had kissed me laughing 
fit to split, as if I had been the cause of the 
trouble. Then the picture vanished, and just 
as it was vanishing she stooped forward and 
kissed me again. 

1 thought that was the funniest part of it 
all. When the film had come to an end the 
people clapped, but not Miss Dickinson. The 
lights went up and she sat silent. Then she 
turned to me,' and she said, in her very iciest 
voice — she could be icy, could Nora Dickin- 
son : — 

" I think, Mr. Parker, if you don't mind, 111 
say good night." 

She got up from her seat, and before I could 
stop her she walked down the row of seats in 
the other direction and left me sitting there. 
She went so quick that she was almost at the 
other end before I had a chance to move — 
and, between ourselves, for about two seconds 
I had half a mind not to try to move. A young 
lady who behaved like that was too much 
for me altogether. I had got to that stage 
when a man's feelings are too much for his 
common sense. I could not let her go like 
that. So up I jumped, and a gentleman 
beside me wanted to know whose foot I 
thought I was treading on, and an old lady 
behind made some remark about my having 
put my stick almost in her eye. 

When I reached the street there was 
no Miss Dickinson in sight, at least not till 

I had looked about me for quite a while. 
Then I saw her about a hundred yards off, 
looking round as if she might be wondering 
what had become of me. Then she caught 
sight of me as soon as I had started after her. 
She was walking about as hard as ever she 
could. She gave me a chase. She jumped 
on a bus, and I got on another* just behind 
her ; but her bus went faster than mine, and 
by the time 1 reached her house she had gone 
in and all the lights were out. 

I am, I hope, as good at taking a hint as 
anyone. I had no wish to force myself into 
a house in which the lights had been put out 
on purpose. I stood for some seconds at the 
bottom of the steps, and I what I should 
have described as glared with what I meant 
to be something more than scorn and con- 
tempt. I walked six times up and down in 
front of the house and then I went home. 
By the time I got there 1 had made up my 
mind that all was over between us and what 
was past was gone for ever. 

All the next day I never had a word from 
her — not so much as half a line. When I 
got home, as I was having supper, my 
sister, who has not got a grain of what I 
call tact, must butt in with her silly remarks, 
and wanted to know what I had been doing 
to poor dear Nora Dickinson. 

" Doing to Nora Dickinson ! " I simply 
echoed her words. I shouldn't wonder if my 
glance went right through her when I stood 
up. " I've done with Nora Dickinson for 
ever. Don't let her name be mentioned in 
my presence in this house again.'* 

Out into the street I went, full of that sort 
of scorn which turns a man's whole life sour. 
As soon as I set foot on the pavement a young 
lady came towards me from the other side 
of the way. 

" Mr. Parker?" she said, and, mark you, 
though a perfect stranger to me, she smiled. 

t4 Mr. Parker, junior," I told her, and I 
raised my hat, I dare say, a little more coldly 
than I quite meant. 

" I have been requested to give you this 
letter." And she gave me a letter, in a pale 
blue envelope with a monogram at the 
back. I knew who it was from the moment 
I saw it. My impulse was to put it in my 
pocket, and without so much as a word stride 
off and leave her standing there. But she 
wasn't taking any. 

u Won't you open that letter, Mr. Parker ? " 
she inquired, when she saw what I was up to. 
" There may be an answer." 

k< Do you know who this letter is from ? " I 





r, if you 


Original from 



" I do," she said, with her chin held up — 
she was not a bad-looking girl. %; It's from 
a friend of mine." 

" Then in that case you can tell her " 

I was on the point of observing that she could 
tell her that all was over between us, but I 
changed my mind — something in that young 
lady's attitude made me. I opened the 
envelope and I read what was in it. " If Mr. 
Parker has anything to say to Miss Dickinson 
he will find her waiting for him by the third 
lamp- post on the right.' ' There wasn't much 
in it — that was every word there was inside 
that envelope — but what there was touched 
me to the heart. I knew Nora Dickinson, 
and I knew that every time she put pen to 
paper it cost her an effort to keep from filling 
the entire sheet. What it must have cost 
her to content herself with two lines ! That 
was the first time I had ever had a communi- 
cation from her for which she could find room 
on a single sheet of paper. I stood and I 
stared at those two lines, I dare say, longer 
than I thought, because presently the young 
lady asked :— 

" Well, Mr. Parker, is there any answer ? " 

I looked at her eye to eye — so far as I 
could see hers through a thick veil and in 
the gas-light — and I briefly replied : — 

" I will be there." 

I turned on my heel as if to leave the girl 
once again, but she wouldn't let me. She put 
her gloved hand upon my sleeve. 

" One moment, Mr. Parker," she said. " I 
will convey your message to my friend. You 
can follow in a quarter of an hour. I trust to 
your honour as a gentleman not to thrust 
yourself upon her until the appointed time. 
Remember, I — we — trust you." 

I don't remember a quarter of an hour in 
which the fifteen minutes seemed longer. It 
was rather awkward her asking me to stay 
where I was. I looked at my watch perhaps 
a dozen times, and walked off three 
minutes before the appointed time, going 
extra slow to make up for it. It was our 
habit to meet each other in Palmerston Road, 
at the third lamp-post on the right, and, 
sure enough, when I got in sight of it I saw 
her standing there. I perceived that she 
was not alone, but that another young lady 
was with her. 

".What is the meaning of this ? " I asked 
myself. " Who can the stranger be ? " 

I strolled slowly forward, and at the proper 
distance I removed my hat. Miss Dickinson 
bowed, as did the stranger, but not a word was 
spoken on either side. It is all very i well 
to stand upon your dignity, but I had soon 

had enough of that. I held out the note I 
had received. 

" I believe," I remarked, " that you sent 
me this?" 

" I may have done," Miss Dickinson 
replied, still an iceberg for coolness. 

" However, I do not wish to act on what I 
have no doubt are your feelings of remorse. 
I have asked you to come here because I 
wished to introduce to you Miss Anderson. ' 

She referred to the young lady at her side, 
who I now perceived was the one who had 
brought me her letter. Miss Anderson ? Until 
she lifted her veil I could have declared that 
I had never seen her in my life before, but 
when she did that I had a shock — a frightful 
shock. It was a thick veil, and hung so that 
it quite hid her face from me. When she 
lifted it with the fingers of both hands I was 

" Don't say," she remarked, as her veil was 
going up, " that you have never seen me 
before. That would be a little too much, 
Mr. Parker, after all that has passed between 

The girl's impudence ! Ton my word, I 
hardly knew if I was standing on my head 
or on my heels. The way in which girls do 
behave nowadays ! When I saw who she 
was it was all I could do to look her in the 
face. She just smiled at me as if she thought 
I was a kind of a joke, and she held out her 
hand. But I didn't take it ; I only took off 
my hat. 

*' Good evening, Mr. Parker," she said, 
still all smiles. " I hope you're feeling very 
well. When I saw you last you were so full 
of fun." 

" Was I ? " I told her. " That isn't my 
recollection. I may have been full of some- 
thing, but I'll swear it wasn't fun." 

" Where," asked Miss Dickinson, in an acid 
tone, even for her, '* did you meet Miss 
Anderson before ? I was not aware that you 
knew her." 

As I looked at one of those young ladies, 
and then at the other, it came upon me with 
a sort of flash that there was something up 
between them. What it was I could not 
guess. But I had had more than enough 
of being made the victim of a conspiracy, so 
I got some of my feelings off my mind then 
and there. 

" Miss Dickinson," I said, 4< I expect you 
know as much about this young lady as I 
do, and perhaps more, since I as good as 
know nothing about her at all." 

" Oh, Mr, Parker ! " chipped in Miss Ander- 

son< U^SlTfO^Hra 1 * meeting ' 


2 95 


how can you speak like that ? After such a 
chain of interesting adventures ! " 

44 Interesting adventures, you call them ! " 
I exclaimed. "That beats the band ! Almost 
murdered I was, and now you're making fun 
of me." 

44 Mr. Parker," asked Miss Dickinson, 
speaking as if something had turned her 
sour, " what is therebetween you and this 
young lady ? " 

A question like that — from her ! — was 
too much. I did let myself go. 

44 There is nothing between us — less than 
nothing, as she knows — and I believe you know 
too. T only saw her once in my life, and then 
only for a few seconds — and I don't want to 
see her again. Yes, Miss Anderson, you must 
pardon me if I say so to your face What 
took place between us two was not of a 
kind to cause me to desire to continue your 
acquaintance. I'm sorry, but there it is." 
Then I turned to Nora and let her have it. 
" As for you. Miss Dickinson, I can't help 
feeling that there is a conspiracy against me. 
Good evening. Miss Dickinson — and good- 

I swung round on my heels and off I started. 
Just as I was starting I heard Miss Dickin- 
son's voice. 

44 Bobby ! " Then " Bob ! " But I paid 
not the slightest attention either to one 
name or the other. Then Miss Anderson 
said, as if she were trying not to speak too 
loud : — 

44 Mr. Parker ! Oh, how can you ? " 

But I still paid no attention, and off I went. 
Then there came Miss Dickinson's voice 
again : — 

44 Bob ! Oh, Bob, I do want to speak to 

She nearly shouted, and it sounded to me 
as if she wasn't far off crying. That did go 
through me, the idea that she wasn't far from 
that. I went so far as to turn and put to 
her a question. 

44 Did you speak to me. Miss Dickinson ? " 

There was nothing sour about the way in 
which she answered, and nothing could have 
been milder. 

44 Yes, Bob, I did. If you wouldn't mind, 
there are a few words I'd rather like to say 
to you." 

For a moment — for one harrowing moment 
— I as itVere swung in the balance. Then 
I caught sight of Miss Anderson's face and 
I saw the grin which was on it, and that 
settled the question. I was not going to 
stop there. After what she had done already 
1 wasn't going to let her take another rise 

out of me, so I lifted my hat, I stood up 
straighter, and I crushed Miss Dickinson. 

44 If, as you say, there are a few words which 

you wish to say to me, I shall be obliged if 

-you'll put them into writing and let me 

have them in the form of a letter, which shall 

have my due consideration." 

That was a stinger. I realized as I walked 
away that it was perhaps more of a stinger 
than I had meant it to be — that is, as far as 
Miss Dickinson was concerned, though I 
should have liked to have had it twice as 
much of a stinger for Miss Anderson. Every 
time I thought of her, as they say in the books, 
I saw red. And that Miss Dickinson should 
have got herself into a conspiracy with her— 
that was too much — it really was. 

That was a troubled night, that one, for 
me — the second troubled ^ight. And it was 
worse than the first. 1 thought of Nora 
Dickinson left there standing beneath the 
lamp-post, calling out to me as if she were 
very nearly crying, and me marching off like 
a statue of scorn, with my head in the air, as 
hard as the nether millstone. She was in 
my head a good part of the next day, and 
her presence there didn't seem to make my 
temper sweeter. 

Just as I was thinking of going out to lunch, 
who should come in but Nora's brother Fred. 
He was all right — I am bound to admit that 
Fred Dickinson always is — talking as if, so 
far as he knew, there was nothing the least 
bit wrong with anything in the world. 

44 Halloa, Bobby ! Whoa, old war-horse ! 
Who goes a-hunting to-day ? About time 
for the grub stakes, isn't it ? Suppose you 
enter for them along o' me? I don't know 
where you take your little bit of corn, but I 
know one which leaves it at the post. Ill 
have a tanner on it, and leave it to you to 
say whether I win or lose." 

A regular sportsman, Fred is. That's the 
way he goes on talking all the time. The sound 
of his voice does me good. We went out 
together. We both had boiled beef with 
dumplings. A better bit of meat, tender 
and juicy, I never want to put my teeth 
to. We were having some cheese when Fred 
came, in the way of conversation, to what I 
knew he had been getting to all the while. 

44 Bob," he began — he put both elbows on 
the table, with a piece of cheese in one hand 
and a crust in the other — 44 what's up between 
you and Nora ? Mind you, I don't wish to 
interfere in your affairs or anyone's, but I have 
been hearing stories which made me think 
that you haven't been so well treated as vou 

mi ^vfe?TfeMICHIGAN 



" No, Fred/' I said, " I have not. You 
can take that from me." 

"What's this I'm told about Tommy 
Bashford ? " 

" Can't say, Fred. Couldn't say positively 
what you've heard. But I can tell you this — 
that one day, before the world is very much 
older, Mr. T. Bashford will get his nose 

" Got more than your nose pulled, didn't 
you, Bobby ? " 

When Fred Dickinson said that I could 
have got up out of my chair and, having paid 
the bill — one-and-eightpence my share came 
to — more than I usually spend — walked out 
of the restaurant and left him there. 

" Don't be shirty, Bob ; don't let yourself 
be put out by little things, but play the man. 
It isn't everyone who has the same ideas as 
you have." Then he leaned forward, and he 
looked at me. " I went to the Walham Green 
movies last night — you know what I mean." 

I did know what he meant. It was at the 
Walham Green picture palace that I had seen 
that ridiculous picture, " The Kiss That 
Failed." I said to Dickinson — I spoke 
earnestly, as it were from the bottom of my 
heart : — 

" Tell me what you think of it ; that's 
what I ask you to do. Speaking as one man 
to another, what did you think of it ? " 

I wasn't altogether pleased to see the way 
Fred Dickinson took my question. A grin 
spread all over his face. 

u Funniest thing I ever saw," he said. 

That took me a little aback. It wasn't 
at all the sort of thing I expected from him, 
considering that there was something like 
tragedy in my very voice, to say nothing of 
my manner. I leaned back and I looked 
at him — steady. 

" Funny, is it ? And that's your idea of 
funny ! " 

" Think what you looked like. Think of 
some of those faces you pulled. And, mind 
you, it was you- to the life. Bob, I thought 
I should have died ; I never thought you had 
it in you. Every time I think of it, it starts 
me off again." 

He proved his words by nearly choking 
himself with a mouthful of bread and cheese. 
Everyone looking at him must have thought 
there was something wrong. He hadn't 
properly got his breath back when he started 
off again. 

" And when you come into that sitting- 
room, looking as if you had no more sense 
than a rabbit, and that girl comes in and 
kisses you, your face — the look which is on 

it — to one like me who knows you — my boy, 
it's a screamer ! " 

He made that plain by " screaming " — I 
suppose he would have called it 4 * screaming " 
— right then and there. 1 called it disgusting 
behaviour in a public restaurant, that's what 
I 'called it. One gentleman in a black frock- 
coat, who I take it was the proprietor, came 
towards us. I thought he was going to put 
us out — straight, I did ; I shouldn't have been 
a bit surprised either. But I had expected 
something better of Fred Dickinson. 

" Oh, Bob ! " he went on, as it were between 
his gasps. " The way the girl kissed you, 
and you not expecting it, and not knowing 
what to do — oh, lor, oh, lor ! I shall liave a 
pain in the side every time I think of it. And 
then when Bill Mulholland turned up " 

" Who's Bill Mulholland ? " It was I who 
put that question. 

u That's the bloke that came into the room 
while the girl was kissing you. Didn't you 
know him ? " 

" No, I did not know him. And I didn't 
want to know him. Is it likely ? " 

" Why, I thought from the style in which 
he treated you that he was an old pal of yours. 
When, without asking any questions, he started 
by knocking you down, and treated you as if 
you were a football, and the other chap threw 
you out of the window " 

I stopped Fred Dickinson, and I made one 
point clear to him before the misunderstanding 
went any farther. 

" One moment, Fred, before you go any 
farther, if you please. Do you suppose that 
was me he threw out of the window ? " 

" I don't suppose it can have been, but it 
was jolly well done." 

" Well done ! Do you imagine I would have 
allowed anyone to throw me out of a window ? 
The whole thing was a fake, a common bare- 
faced fake." 

" Maybe, but it's a jolly funny fake all the 

" That's a question of opinion. Some 
people have their own ideas of what is funny, 
and there's no discussing them. But don't 
you sit there and imagine for a single moment 
that it really was me who was handled as I 
seemed to be handled in that rotten film. I 
was never knocked down in my life, either by 
Bill Mulholland or anyone else. You know 
me, Fred Dickinson. Do you think I'm the 
sort of man who would let himself be treated 
like that?" 

" Well, it did seem to be a bit of a staggerer, 
I admit ; but tf-|ihJT£ffft'ft >" ou " 

""bNWffiSrtF^crilfiRtf £t - That ' s 



\ f where the fake began. No one laid so much 

as a finger on me. How it was done I can't tell 
you, but I'm going to find out before I've 
finished. I never saw your Bill Mulholland in 
all the days of my life." 

I leaned right over the table so that he could 
hear my words quite clearly without my having 
to raise my voice. 

" Fred, I admit to you, as between man and 
man, that that young lady kissed me ; before 
I had a chance to ask what the deuce she meant 
by it she ran for her life, and I've never seen 

! her again till last night, when — goodness knows 

how it came about — she was with your sister. 
They must have had a dummy to take my 
place. I don't know what kind of a dummy, 
but they must have had some kind of a one. 
It was a dummy they threw out of the 

1 window. It was a dummy which came down 

on the coster's barrow. I suppose it was a 
dummy they picked up and threw on the top 
of a bus. Was it likely to be me ? If it 
wasn't a dummy I don't know what it was 
that was on the roof of the house. And what 
do you imagine it was that the workmen 
threw from one to the other till they brought 
down the scaffolding, and it got buried in a 
whole streetful of traffic ? Do you mean to 
sit there and tell me you thought it was me ? 
I look as if I'd been at the bottom of a 
' pile ' like you saw on the film, don't I ? " 

14 1 don't know what you look like. I know 
what I saw with my own eyes, or what I 
thought I saw." 

" What you thought you saw ! " I rose 
from that table, walked out of the restaurant, 
and left him still sitting. At the door, just as 
I was going out, I met Jack Hammond. I 
suppose what had happened between Fred 
and me had put my back up enough already, 
because the sight of him was the finishing 
touch. He addressed me as if we were on 

I terms of the greatest intimacy. Considering 

* .+ all things, that was about the top brick. 

f " Halloa, Bob, my squire of dames ! 

1 What's the time of day in your part of the 

1 world ? " 

I made no reply ; I opened the door of the 
restaurant ; he went in and I went after him. 
" You'll find Fred Dickinson sitting over 
there," I told him, " and I expect he'll 
be pleased to see you." Fred Dickinson 
hailed me as I reached his table with Ham- 

" Halloa, Bob Parker, you're back again ! 
Have you asked Hammond what he thinks 
of that picture ? " 

u It was because of Hammond that that 
picture was taken. I'm going to give him 

something which will help him not to forget 

I up with my fists and I gave Jack Ham- 
mond first the left and then the right on the 
tip of his nose. If anyone had told me, only 
that morning, that I should have behaved 
like that in any circumstances whatever I 
should have told him that he did not know 
Bob Parker. I didn't know him myself, and 
I'm sure it was a surprise to Hammond. He 
stepped backwards against a gentleman who 
was having his sweets. He got mixed up with 
him, and he came down backwards with his 
head in his rice-pudding. Then there was a 
pretty to-do. Hammond sang out something, 
Dickinson jumped up — pretty nearly everyone 
jumped up. 

"Bob," cried Fred, "whatever do you 
mean by doing a thing like that ? " 

" Hammond knows what I mean. Jack 
Hammond pretends to be a friend of mine. 
It was through him that I went to that pic- 
ture studio, where they take the films they 
are going to exhibit. It was just an ordinary 
room, with nothing in it, only some cameras 
about. * You stand up there, Bob,' said 
Jack to me, * and take your hat off ; we'll 
get some pictures of you.' So I stood up, 
and then he said, ' Pull faces ; it will make 
it funnier.' I didn't know what he meant, 
but I did as he said. * That'll do,' he 
presently remarked. 4 Now stand still and 
keep your eyes front.' I had no idea what 
the game was, and I had no idea that he was 
playing a low-down dirty trick on me. So I 
stood up and I stared. I was still at it when 
someone came up behind, and — I can only 
say to my amazement — a lady's arm was 
put round my neck, and before I knew what 
was going to happen a lady started kissing 
me. She had got her arm so tight round 
my neck that I couldn't get away. When I 
did wrench myself loose I looked round and 
caught my first glimpse of her ; and when 
she saw me look at her she turned tail and 
ran away. That, Fred Dickinson, you can 
tell your sister, was the beginning and the end 
of that picture, and I personally had nothing 
to do with whatever happened afterwards. 
For further particulars apply to Mr. Jack 
Hammond. Perhaps when he has recovered 
from his little accident he may be able to 
explain to you how it came to be developed 
into the ' Giant Comic ' which you saw last 
night. If Mr. Hammond has anything which 
he wishes to say to me, he knows where I 
am to be found, either to-day or at any 
other time he chooses." 

1 t^hWklM a scnsation ^ 



what do you think ? A> for Hammond, he 
seemed too surprised to do anything, even 
to speak* And the same with Fred Dickinson, 
He was just helping Hammond to pick him- 
self up when 1 took myself off — that time 
for good* 

That was one of the days of my life. I don't 
mind admitting it. The story got about 
how I had knocked Jack Hammond's head into 
a 'gentleman'' s ricr-pudding. I fancy Dickin- 
son said something to him* and he said 
something-to Dickinson* I did hear that the 

gentleman made him pay fourpence for the 
rice -pudding — and that's how it began- I 
am told that before the day was through the 
whole air was full of tales which were being 
told about trie — all because I had knocked 


Diqilized by v.* 







Hammond's head into that gentleman's 

How things like that get about so quickly 
I don't know. They knew at the office ; the 
people there treated me with a civility which 
did them credit. But the thing must have 
got farther than the office, because, when I 
got home, the first thing after I'd set my nose 
inside the door Louisa gave me an envelope, 
with what I should describe as very nearly 
a wink. 

" She brought it herself this afternoon, and 
she asked me to give it you the very first 
moment you came in. So you've been knock- 
ing people's heads into other people's rice- 
pudding. Nice goings-on, I must say ; you're 
a pretty sort, Bob Parker." 

I took the envelope up to ' my bedroom, 
where I could count on being alone, and I 
opened it. This is what I found inside : — 

" My Dear Bob, — Do, do forgive me, 
please. I can't tell you how ashamed I am 
of treating you so badly — I am a wretch. 
But I'm so glad you knocked Jack Hammond 
into the rice-pudding. I don't deserve that 
you should ever speak to me again, but if 
you would try to meet me to-night, as usual, 
just for five minutes, I would beg your 
pardon. I know what a generous heart you 
have, and I will try to show you that I have 
been more sinned against than sinning. 
May I sign myself, once more, if for the last 
time, my dear Bob, yours, N. D." 

That was what was inside the envelope. 
I call that a letter which would move any 
man who was a man to the very depths of his 
being. If I ever moved more quickly towards 
that third lamp-post on the right, I don't 
remember when. 

She was there, though I was in advance of 
the usual time. I scarcely like to say more. 
There have been little gives and takes since 
then, I own it, but that was of the nature of a 
sacred meeting, and, as such, it lingers in my 
mind. We settled everything that night — 
every blessed thing. In six months it was to 
be, that we finally arranged. Thirty shillings, 
or thirty-five shillings, whichever it might 
be, that made no difference — the actual date 
was practically fixed. 

To show what a practical nature she has, 
in the midst of our most romantic moments, 
I may mention that just after there had been 
passages between us of what I might describe 
as an unusually private nature she switched 
off without the least apparent effort to what 
was quite a different theme. 

fc< Do you know, Bob," she said, " I've 
been wondering if you couldn't get anything 

out of those picture people — damages, I 

" It's an extraordinary fact," I told her, 
" but I've been wondering the same thing 
myself. It shows how minds, when they're 
in true sympathy, move in unison." 

" Oh, Bob ! " she whispered. It happened 
that she had her hand in mine, and— well, 
there was a passage. Then the conversation 
went on, she, as it were, picking up the ball 
which she had started. 

" I've been thinking things over. Jack 
Hammond owns that when you went to that 
studio you never went meaning to be taken." 

" Of course I didn't. I had no more idea of 
it than a babe unborn. Jack said to me, 
* I know a place where they take pictures. 
A pal of mine is one of the operators. Come 
in and have a look at it.' So in I went, inno- 
cent as a child." 

" So when he asked you to stand up and 
pull faces you had no idea he meant to make 
a picture of you ? " 

" Of course I hadn't j is it likely ? Am I the 
sort of person who might be expected to make 
a fool of myself for a lot of silly idiots to look 
at ? What was I going to get out of it, do 
you think ? " 

" That's it — what were you going to get 
out of it ? And then that girl came in — Miss 
Anderson — bold-faced thing ! " 

"'She did, and she kissed me. There's nc 
blinking the fact." 

" I say it was assault. You didn't ask her 
to kiss you, did you ? " 

" Nora ! Am I the sort of person who would 
be likely to do a thing like that ? " 

" Then I say it was an outrage. I believe 
she could be punished. I remember reading 
about a gentleman who kissed a lady in the 
street, a perfect stranger to him, and got 
three months' hard labour." 

" I don't know about three months' hard 
labour," I said. Nora's tone was more positive 
than mine was. 

" I dare say you don't, but I do. Hussy ! 
She deserves to smart. Anyhow, the film 
people could be made to pay damages, I feel 
sure of it, for turning the disgusting exhibition 
into a picture, without asking your permission. 
I expect they made heaps of money out of it 
themselves. I do think you ought to get 

" That's what I can't help thinking myself." 

" Bringing you into contempt, being kissed 
in a place of public entertainment, and 
making you look like a fool." 

" WTrat foHqfyg^lfi-wfts what I object to 

most ukAMfeffli^g.^ the thinfr ,ike 



she was. " Making out that I allowed myself 
to be knocked down as if I were a ninepin, 
as if I didn't dare to try and defend myself." 

" As if you were a coward." Again Nora 
pressed my hand. " The way you knocked 
Jack Hammond's head into that man's rice- 
pudding proves how much truth there is in 
any suggestion that you're wanting in proper 
spirit.' ' 

" And then the idea of me being thrown out 
of a window ! " 

" I call that nothing else than libellous." 

" And being knocked about in a public 
thoroughfare as if I were something less than 
a bag of straw— me. whose sense of dignity 
is as strong as any man's ! These film 
gentlemen have tried their hands on me. so 
I'll try mine on them, and we'll see what 
we shall see." 

Nora stood still facing me ; she put both 
her hands upon my shoulders — there didn't 
happen t# be much light there — and she 
said : — 

" I do believe there's more in you than 
anyone ever dreamt. Look at the way you 
treated Jack Hammond. If only you could 
make those picture people smart, wouldn't 
it be splendid ? " 

That was on the Thursday evening. On 
the Tuesday evening following, when I met 
Nora as usual, the first remark I made to her 
was — or very nearly the first remark, after, 
of course, the usual preliminaries : — 

" Nora, I've had an offer from the British 
Cinematographic Polyscopic Company." 

She turned to me, and she stared. 

" Bob, whatever are you talking about ? 
The British — what did you call the company ? 
Whatever is that ? " 

" That's the film people, that's who 
that is. This afternoon, just as I was 
back from dinner, a friendly young fellow 
came into the office. He said, ' Mr. Parker ? ' 
and before I could stop him he was shaking 
my hand as though he'd like to shake 
it off. ' Pleased to have the pleasure of 
meeting you,' he said. ' I'm Godfrey King. 
I represent the British Polyscopic Company. 
That picture L^f yours is the finest stroke of 
humour I ever met. It made me laugh, 
Mr. Parker.' ' Glad to hear it, Mr. King/ 
I told him. ' Have you brought damages 
as requested ? ' * Damages ! ' he sniggered. 

1 You really are too funny, Mr. Parker. * 
Because your own friend had a little joke 
with you.' ' Everyone has' their own ideas 
of joking/ I told him. ' I'll see the fun of 
this joke when I see the colour of your money/ 
I went on to explain that it was my business 
time, and I'd be obliged if he'd take himself 
off if he wasn't going to talk business. - * But,' 
he wanted to know, * what damages can you 
possibly claim ? ' ' For one thing,' I told him, 
' I nearly lost my young lady.' " 

" Oh, Bob, did you really tell him that ? 
What a dear you are ! " 

*' I did tell him that, straight out, and that 
brought him to the point. That showed Him 
I was in earnest. The long and the short of 
it was that before he went he made me a firm 
offer for five-and-twenty pounds." 

" Five-and-twenty pounds ? Bob ! Have 
you got the money ? " 

" No, I have not got the money, and that 
for the simple reason that I wouldn't accept 
his offer. I told him that I wouldn't accept 
a farthing less than fifty, andthat before twelve 
o'clock to-morrow morning. And, mind you, 
I shall get it, or he'll be sorry. Raymond 
Wilson, the chap who sits at the next desk 
to me, was once in a solicitor's office himself. 
He told me that the firm he was with would 
take my case up on spec, and he felt sure 
they'd guarantee me a hundred pounds. I 
gave Mr. Godfrey King a hint of what Wilson 
had told me, and you should have seen his 
face« I shall be surprised if that fifty pounds 
isn't in my hands before the time I mentioned." 

" Fifty pounds ! Do you really and truly 
mean it ? Why, that will very nearly buy 
us a home." 

" It will buy us enough of a home to start 
with. I'll get some catalogues from the 
furniture people. I saw only the other day 
something about a home being fully furnished 
for fifty pounds." 

" It's too good to dream of. I sha'n't dare 
to think of it before everything's settled." 

" That's the proper way to look at it, Nora. 
I can only say I hope to let you have the news 
in the morning." 

In the morning Miss Dickinson had a tele- 
gram : — 

4i Fifty pounds paid. Have got three cata- 
logues.— Bob Parker." 

by Google 

Original from 



MR. H. W. DOUGHTY, 23. S.h«i RoaWWtf&l Jtp*M MKM&. N 



\ u 1 8 4ii 1 1 ic beetle*— i-e&Hy i "re /I 

flrctioti" piclUrt of a rand bank- 

Th* r*aprr at work. 

MR. HENRY WARNER, 74, Richford Strc&IHUMdUiMti) W. 


KEsu/r of imiot(k;hal»iik' (/hmtk/jti [on. 


Vul. li. ZB. 

MR. T. F. BROCDEN, , >." N^iTflliUtt H&LU 9UW&A N 

Schmitt s Pigeons. 


Illustrated by Dudley Tennant. 

HE recent suicide of Hans 
Kultur Schmitt in the public 
jail of a famous northern 
city excited keen but baffled 
and, therefore, fleeting interest. 
That Schmitt was thus de- 
prived of his due meed of 
notoriety — if he cared about it, which is 
doubtful — was certainly not the fault either 
of the newspapers or of the public. The 
public, we may believe, was hungry for the 
u ghastly details;' and the news editors of 
the English-speaking world were panting 
tc minister to its appetite and eminently 
capable of doing so. For, needless to say, 
the sleuth-hounds of the Press (wonderful 
fellows, models of efficiency) had the whole 
story at their finger-tips within an hour of 
the occurrence. But the Censor forbade, 
and all that the public got was the bare, 
unsatisfying fact of the suicide. 
Briefly, " the facts " were these. 
Hans Kultur Schmitt was arrested at 
Ramcaster railway station at eleven in the 
morning. At twelve, after a brief examination, 
in which he took no active part, he was 
safely lodged in the most commodious cell 
(being a Hun) which the jail afforded. At 
twelve forty-five, when the warder went in 
with a plate of meat and some apple tart, 
specially fetched from the confectioner's 
over the way, he was shocked to sec Schmitt 
lying huddled up on the floor against the wall. 
His head, twisted at a horrible angle and 
gruesomely misshapen, lay in a small patch 
of blood, and his face was hideously contorted. 
The medical officer, hastily summoned, 
discovered a compound fracture of a very 
severe nature. The upper portion of the 
frontal bone and portions of the parietals 
were badly crushed in. 

It was obvious that great force had been 
used, for the skull was unusually thick. Yet 
no weapon of any kind was found in the cell, 
nor any object capable of being used as a 
weapon. It was also sufficiently certain that 
nobodv could have entered the cell between 

the warder's first and second visits. Thus, 
at first sight, the thing was a mystery. How- 
ever, a more detailed examination of the 
circumstances disclosed a curious mark on 
the wall about four feet from the ground. 

The mark aforesaid consisted of blood and 
hair— Schmitt's hair. Interpreted in con- 
junction with the damage to 'the skull, and 
also with certain boot-marks on the floor of 
the cell, it indicated that Schmitt, a heavily- 
built man, had had the savage hardihood 
to put his head down and run full-tilt against 
the wall, so dashing out his brains. 

Many who attentively followed the in- 
cidents of those stern and anxious days 
may recollect that the swift obliteration 
of the Schmitt sensation was largelv 
attributable to the spreading rumours of 
a far greater event, namely, the collapse 
of the titanic air armada. The relief and 
gladness created by this news shut out all 
other thought. 

Yet I suppose that, outside the close official 
ring, not half-a-dozen persons associated the 
pitiful self-destruction of Hans Kultur Schmitt 
with a menace and a deliverance such as have 
seldom come to our nation in all its strenuous 

To this day it is a mystery how the enemy 
succeeded in collecting so vast a fleet of air 
craft with such consummate secrecy. Nor is 
the mystery likely to be revealed for many a 
day to come. The fact remains that in those 
halcyon days of Christmas week, when the 
mind could scarce realize save with conscious 
effort that the passage of each tranquil hour 
was marked by hecatombs of slaughtered men, 
a hundred air-ships, attended by an unnum- 
bered cloud of battle-aeroplanes, were rushing 
towards this land, pregnant with slaughter 
and destruction. 

The mere assembling of such an armada 
from the far-scattered hangars where alone 
its units could have been constructed was a 
notable piece of organization. The Press 
Bureau, which does not lie (except by refrain- 

inp f WfflVfeffftttlrtteX?i thc authorit . y 



of a report prepared by our Minister for the 
Air, that the armada sailed up in twos and 
threes from a full quadrant of the compass, 
struck the chosen coast-point to the very 
minute, fell into line of ten abreast, and with 
hardly a check sailed away westward at inter- 
vals of three minutes between the successive 
lines. Thus, within half an hour the whole 
mass of a hundred vessels and their hundreds 
of satellites, with scarcely a whisper of 
easterly wind behind it, was wending its 
dread, swift way high over the North Sea 
towards Britain. 

The testimony of some fishermen was 
adduced to explain how, when barely half 
the distance was covered, a sudden squall 
from the south-west struck the armada and 
threw it into confusion, while the furious 
gale which followed bent it in an instant 
from its course and swept it up towards the 

It appears that the trawler herself, with 
the gale hammering on her beam, made the 
port of Grimsby by the skin of her teeth 
with hardly a shovelful of coal left in her 
bunkers. Long before that the terrifying 
apparition had vanished from the sky, 
driving helplessly, colliding and scattering, 
plunging and writhing, towards the frozen 
bourne whence neither man nor ship nor plane 
was destined to return. When Skevigsen 
comes home from the Arctic in 191 7 we may 
possibly hear something of their ultimate 
fate ; if not, then nothing till the Judgment 

Early in the forenoon of that day of great 
deliverance, Mrs. Gondula Egerton was 
travelling north to see her husband, a naval 
officer whose ship — which may not be named 
—was temporarily stationed at — well, best 
not mention that either. The train was 
overflowing with Jocks as to the greater part 
of its length, but the first-class carriages 
were only sparsely occupied at that early 
hour. Mrs. Egerton selected a compartment 
and, after the aloof manner of the British 
traveller, proceeded to distribute her traps 
as far as possible over the whole of the seating 
space in order to discourage others from 

Her little plot was brought to naught by 
a gentleman with a picnic basket in his hand, 
whose taste for solitude seemed equal to her 
own. After tramping up and down the 
platform, scrutinizing every compartment, 
and finding all occupied, he provokingly 
pitched on Mrs. Egerton's, which he entered. 

He dropped into a window-seat with his 

back to the engine. Mrs. Egerton thereupon 
collected her things and retired to a seat 
next the corridor with her face to the engine, 
as far as possible from the intruding man. 

It was a wondrous morning, clear, fresh, 
and tranquil, with the lightest south-easterly 
breeze to sway the leafless twigs and flutter 
the dead grasses beside the line. 

The ancient Greeks, enthusiastic liars them- 
selves, were happily able to invent and like- 
wise believe all sorts of charming figments. 
One was that the kingfisher at the breeding 
season made unto itself a floating nest 
upon the sea, and, sitting therein, charmed 
wind and waves to quietude until the hatch- 
ing was done. The careful mariner, being 
aware of this natural historical phenomenon, 
was wont to put to sea without a qualm during 
the period of the halcyon's nesting, confident 
that his voyage would be untroubled by 
stormy winds and seas. 

Halcyon day indeed it was for Mrs. Egerton. 
She was more than content. A sailor's wife, 
her heart for ever on the sea, she had learned 
to notice wind and weather, and good sea- 
weather was good enough for her and always 
made her glad. This morning, moreover, 
she was full of joy in the prospect of reunion 
with her husband after the anxiety and 
periodic alarms of perilous months. 

To divert the current of her thoughts, she 
took up a magazine which she had had the 
foresight to buy, and dived desperately into 
its stirring pages. 

Several miles had satisfactorily disappeared 
behind her when a creaking sound made her 
look across towards the fellow-traveller whose 
unobtrusive presence she had forgotten. He 
had stowed his basket on the seat between 
himself and the window, and was now com- 
placently munching a sandwich, one of a pile 
which lay on a white napkin methodically 
spread over the open basket, presumably 
to catch the crumbs. 

" Curious time to be eating sandwiches," 
thought Mrs. Egerton : it was still short of 
nine. And, indeed, the man seemed to con- 
sider it more a duty than a pleasure. His 
attention was absorbed by the friendly 
English landscape and the skyscape — wintry 
pale, but bright and cloudless. 

He looked like a man of thirty-five, as 
she idly scanned him. His well-knit frame 
was garbed in decently -cut tweeds of a 
quietly sporting pattern — nothing cheeky— 
and possessing that clean, pervasive, peaty 
smell which seems as inexhaustible as the 
emanations c f radium. 

Next time she was moved to look up the 


«lll\ HARH.l l\.\ 1 > 1 - I . ■■ • I V ■,- ... |;KI .1) A ...i 4>l IN >■:■' MI FROM 

sin mitts i>h;kons. 




tt'HKS HAHK1.Y KM I- THE DIS> I A^N^'^RSI T^ v iF*^l t^JH^y AtM Syl'ALl. fltuM 




3 io 


man had finished munching, and he now 
bunched his napkin together with the greatest 
nicety, stood up, and carefully shook it out 
of the carriage window. 

" Tidy but fussy," commented Mrs. Eger- 
ton. " His poor wife — if he's got a wife ! " 
And once more she returned to her magazine. 

Now the train was racing through the level 
shires of central England, where the towns 
and villages were so few, so circumscribed, 
so swiftly passed, the green stretches between 
so long and spacious, that Mrs. Egerton won- 
dered why people were content to huddle and 
choke in the cities when there were such miles 
of room in the country. She looked at the 
time-table, then at her watch. " Blacking- 
ton in half an hour, thank goodness ! " she 
mused, " and that will be half-way. Bless 
us, he's eating again ! " 

And so he was. It seemed incredible. 
Not much over an hour had passed since last 
he stayed the pangs, and here he was staying 
them again ! Was it the same old packet 
of sandwiches or a fresh one ? How could 
the man do it — in war-time, too ! She 
watched the phenomenon covertly. 

The same ritual was again observed. 
There was the basket open beside him, and 
the napkin carefully spread over it. Self- 
consciousness was certainly not his weakness. 
Once only did he glance in her direction, and 
that was when the munching part of the 
ceremony was drawing to a close and the 
shaking of the crumbs was about to take 
place. His glance was quick, but she, not 
wishing to appear inquisitive, managed to 
anticipate him by the fraction of a second ; 
all he saw of her was a languid lady feasting 
her artistic eye on a highly-coloured repre- 
sentation of one of the company's hotels, 
in a glass frame above the opposite seat. 

He turned away, let down the carriage 
window, and carefully gathered up his nap- 
kin as before. Just then the train thundered 
on to the girder bridge which crosses the 
canal half a mile from Blackington station, 
and he stood up to shake. 

As he did so, the draught from the window 
lifted a corner of the napkin, and Mrs. 
Egerton, watching amusedly, saw something 
exceedingly interesting, if far from amusing. 
Under that napkin was a tmnch of grey 
feathers — the tail feathers of a bird. That 
bird, she could have sworn it, was a pigeon, 
and a live one. 

The man thrust his head and the upper part 
of his body through the window frame, 
dropped his hands below the sash, and let 
the napkin fly with a curious little jerk of 

the arms. He shook it ostentatiously for a 
moment or two, then got himself back into 
the carriage and dropped into his seat again, 
popped the napkin into the basket, and fas- 
tened the lid carefully. 

Mrs. Egerton was perturbed. She had 
good command of her features and did not 
show that she had seen anything ; all the 
same, she was thinking pretty hard. She 
did not want to make a fool of herself by 
interfering with a harmless traveller. But 
suppose he was not harmless ? Anyhow, 
he ought not to be flying pigeons from a 
railway carriage — if he was flying pigeons. 

While she debated, the train ran into the 
big station at Blackington, where there is 
always a wait of a few minutes while the 
north-bound train takes on the portion from 
the west country. The man got up, glanced 
at his basket, then, raising his hat, stepped 
past Mrs. Egerton into the corridor, made 
his way to the carriage door, and got out. 
The topography of the station seemed 
familiar to him, for without hesitating or 
looking about him he walked up the plat- 
form to the telegraph-office some distance off, 
and went into it. 

Mrs. Egerton watched him. When she saw 
him vanish, a bold idea came into her head. 
Why not examine the basket for herself and 
make sure ? It was not a nice thing to do, 
of course ; it might turn out very awkwardly 
for her if she were caught in the act, especially 
if the basket had nothing incriminating in 
it after all. Braver thoughts came to her aid, 
however, and she brushed her fears aside. 

If the man was really flying pigeons, as- 
she believed, then he was almost certainly 
a spy, and it was her duty to checkmate 
him, if she could, at whatever risk to herself. 
She had heard a good deal about the machina- 
tions of these gentry, thanks to whom several 
of her husband's comrades had perished in 
the North Sea in the early days of the war — 
and his turn might come, might even follow 
from the nefarious activities of this very man. 

She sprang up, glanced hastily into the 
corridor and along the platform, then stepped 
across the compartment to where the basket 
lay on the seat. Her hands trembled as 
she snatched at the fastenings. It seemed 
an age before she could get the thing undone. 
Then she cautiously lifted the lid and peeped 

There was the napkin he had last thrust in, 
and another one spread out over whatever 
else the basket might contain. What was 
underneath ? Nothing moving, so far as . 
she could seeriq&fcaishe pushed the lid back 



3 1 * 

against the cushions, keeping one hand on 
it ready to clap it down if anything hap- 
pened, and cautiously drew back the napkin. 

They were a pair of beauties — homers of 
an uncommonly fine class, so far as she could 
judge from a passing acquaintance with 
pigeon-shows. Each glossy head with its 
squat beak and beady, watchful eyes, was 
thrust up from the folds of a white napkin 
tucked over the wings and back. The 
birds sat cosily in separate partitions ; two 
other partitions were empty, except for a little 
packet which she guessed to be more sand- 

The discovery excited her tremendously. 
Forgetting that her time was measured by 
seconds, she thrust in her hand to feel if the 
tell-tale quill of the messenger pigeon was 
under the wing. The bird she touched, 
resenting the unaccustomed hand, or tired 
of his imprisonment, fluttered up and shook 
off the restraining napkin. His movement 
naturally disturbed the other. Before Mrs.* 
Egerton coufd prevent it, both birds had 
their strong wings free and beating wildly. 

She was petrified with fright. In a moment 
the man would be back, he would see that he 
was found out, and would very likely make a 
bolt for it and escape. Possibly, he might 
relieve his feelings with an automatic pistol. 
In desperation she grabbed the birds as test 
she could and tried to stuff them back into 
the basket^ That made them positively 
frantic ; it tfas all she could do to keep a hold 
on therrf at all, clutching at anything — wings, 
tail, body, feet, feathers. In the midst of 
it, sfie .cast a scared glance towards the 
platform. Alas ! the man was returning 
already ; he was not a dozen yards from the 
carriage, and coming towards it. In his 
hand he had. a brown telegram envelope, 
and his manner was preoccupied. This and 
the luckiest chance saved her. 

At her wits end what to do, she felt a wild 
impulse to drop the birds and run away. 
Exerting all her will-power, she pulled herself 
together ; she could not, would not, give 
up like that ; rather would she meet him 
face to face, tax him with espionage, and trust 
to her mother-wit* and good fortune to get 
him collared. 

At this critical instant the train began to 
creep backwards, preparatory to joining 
on with the new portion. The man stepped 
forward to jump in, but a stentorian chorus 
of " Stand away, there ! Coming back ! ,T 
deterred him, and he was slowly left behind. 

Mrs. Egerton, blessing the opportune devices 
of Providence, clasped the unfortunate birds 

to her bosom, bent over and crammed them 
in somehow, crushed them down with her 
hands, threw the napkin over them, and 
slammed the lid. 

The pressure of anxiety being removed, her 
sense of humour returned. 

"I am very sorry, birds," she said. " I 
hate to incommode you, but you see how it is." 
She sank back on her seat with a sigh of relief 
and had just time to put up her feet, fling a 
rug over them, and assume a face of un- 
concern before the train stopped with a jolt, 
and the man re-entered. 

His eyes sought the basket, but he noticed 
nothing wrong. The train was steaming 
off finally when a portly gentleman came puff- 
ing along the corridor and took the seat oppo- 
site Mrs. Egerton. 

" She's punctual to-day, for a wonder/' 
he said, breathing heavily and smiling 
benignly. The spy, as she now believed him 
to be, looked searchingly at the new-comer, 
but said nothing. 

Mrs. Egerton sternly set herself to compose 
her feelings and collect her thoughts. Her 
spirits were exalted by the success of her 
manoeuvre. It was imperative that the man 
should suspect nothing ; nor did he, for he 
did not once look in her direction. Instead, 
he anxiously examined the heavens while 
tearing his telegram into little bits and scatter- 
ing them out of the window in driblets. All 
the cheerful satisfaction had gone out of 
his face. Yet the day was still bright and 
beautiful ; a smudge of cloud liad formed 
on the western horizon, but otherwise the 
vault of heaven was as clear as ever, from 
earth to zenith. 

Meanwhile, what was her best plan of 
action ? The man should be arrested, of 
course, but how was it to be done ? Also, 
he should be prevented from loosing the 
other birds, if such was his intention. What 
his idea might be in sending them away 
successively she could not imagine, nor did 
she waste time in wondering about it. The 
thing to do was to stop the birds and catch 
the man. For this she must have help. 

He had obviously based his plans on the 
sandwich trick, as she reasoned it out. 
Therefore, seeing that his previous effort 
occurred just on the other side of Blackington, 
less than twenty minutes ago, he could 
hardly invite comment by eating again so 
soon. By the same token, he was unlikely 
to attempt another toss for, say, another 
hour, at a!) events. She resolved to consult 
the guard. The presence of the stout 
gentleman wa.s opportune, because, although 

3 , 2 




it was impraetieable for several reasons to up, looked in the glass, pitted her hair, 

explain the position to him, he would vet straightened her hat, and went forth on her 

act as sentry without knowing it, errand. Original from 

Assuming her rainiest manner, she st^od ' ^ UWP/tRSIT^^P Mlt^MTIQIA H 4 '" '* ' us J* Kl r,10 >"* 



She ricochetted along the corridors, bumped 
into sharp corners, crossed draughty bridges 
with oscillating floors, fought with spring- 
doors, and finally reached the ill-smelling 
den called the van. At the farther end she 
descried the guard, entrenched behind regular 
ehevaux de frise of motor-bicycles, bundles 
of rose trees, Christmas hampers, and trunks 
of fish. 

The guard was an elderly man with grey 
beard and waxen cheeks, the product of 
heavy responsibility and years of night 
travelling. He was cumbered with much 
sorting of parcels in a fearful racket, insuffi- 
cient light, and a general atmosphere of 
clammy discomfort. Yet he listened courteously 
while Mrs. Egerton, by dint of shouting 
continuously for several minutes, explained 
the situation to him. It would not be right 
to suggest that he was enthusiastic ; on the 
contrary, he would plainly much have pre- 
ferred to think she had found a mare's-nest. 
He bellowed in her ear : — 
44 There's plenty think a passenger guard 
has nothing to do but sit comfortable in his 
van, jump out when she stops, and blow the 
whistle when it's time for her to go on again. 
I've got a good half-hour's work here before 
I'm straight. But I'll come and have a 
look at him." 

With some persuasion and the adroit 
administration of tangible encouragement, 
she got him to promise to throw out a message 
at the next wayside station, requesting the 
railway people to warn the military guard 
at Ramcaster. It was a chance whether it 
would reach, but it was worth trying. 

Then she struggled back. Bruised, 
deafened, and with all her joints starting 
from their sockets, she regained the carriage. 
When she got up to her compartment, she 
was startled to hear laughter and loud 
talking. She paused to listen. 

44 No railway sandwiches for me— I don't 

want to die just yet," cried a vigorous voice. 

44 You are right, sir ; quite right. I 

remember once " It was the high, thin 

voice of the stout gentleman. 

The enemy and the sentry on terms of 
pleasantry ! She had not considered that 
possibility. The subject of their conversation 
made her heart sink. She slipped in quickly. 
The pigeon-basket was open. Just as she 
came in its owner stuffed a half-eaten sand- 
wich into his mouth, picked up his napkin 
and thrust it through the open window. 
She was within an ace of starting forward 
to stop him, but she saw that she was too 
late ; also, bv showing that she knew, sh